I Can't Make You Love Me
by melissaeverdeen13
Summary: Heir Jackson Avery can't access his inheritance without being married. He pays off April Kepner's family so in return, she will be his wife. As they're thrown into a life they've never known, around every corner awaits something new; an unburied secret, a hidden heart. How much is too much before the burden becomes unbearable? How is it possible to be married and not fall in love?
1. Chapter 1

**APRIL**

The house is quiet until my sisters get home, and I like it that way. Though I spend most of my day in other people's space cleaning up for them, cleaning our own house in our own silence is always more peaceful. There's a serene quality to it, being in this house, that goes unmatched.

Our house isn't much of anything at all, really. There's barely enough room to hold me, my sisters, our mom, and our cat, but we make it work. Somehow. Even on the days it feels like our life will burst at the seams, we always make it through to see the next morning.

The silence is soon interrupted by the sound of my two younger sisters coming in the front door, though, banging it open and laughing as they go.

"April, we're home!" they chorus, and I lift up from my hands and knees, where I'd been scrubbing the bathroom floor.

"In here," I call, and hear their footsteps hurrying my way.

Kimmie and Alice, my younger siblings, are eight and five, respectively. There's a big jump between the two of them and myself, being as I'm 21, and the only one older than me is Libby at 26. Libby and Mom work two jobs, which doesn't put them at home very often. Because of this, I've taken on a sort of mother role to the two little ones.

"Hi, sissy!" they say, stopping before the doorway, knowing not to get their dirty shoes on my clean floor.

"I wanna hug you," Alice says, stretching out her arms. "Come out, sissy."

"Oh, alright," I say, standing slowly and walking over to them with wide arms. "Come here, babes."

I lift both of my sisters into my arms and they giggle and squeal as I swing them around. I kiss each of their heads before setting them back down, and they look up at me with shining, smiling eyes. I wipe a smudge of dirt from the tip of Kimmie's nose, and she scrunches it after.

"Your skirt is torn," I say to Alice, kneeling to take the fabric between my fingers. "I'll sew it for you tonight."

"It was the leastest ripped one in my drawer," she says, dropping her chin to her chest. "Everything else was ripped worser."

I move my lips over to one side and let out a long sigh. Mom has been saying she'll bring home new fabric as soon as she gets paid, so we can make new clothes for the little ones. The hand-me-downs from me and Libby are simply too old. But that money hasn't come, and neither has the fabric. So, we've had to make do with what we have.

"You give me what needs fixing, and I'll fix it," I say to her, holding her shoulders.

"Can I, too?" Kimmie asks. "I have clothes with rips, too."

"Of course," I say, then touch each of their noses with my pointer finger. "Why don't you two practice writing while I finish up the bathroom, then I'll come out and make us some dinner."

"Is the TV back on?" Kimmie asks, bouncing from foot-to-foot.

My stomach sinks, knowing the answer. Our cable got turned off a month ago because we weren't able to pay the bill, and we haven't had TV since. I've been looking around for a cheap antenna so we can at least get the news, but I haven't had luck.

"Not yet," I say.

"When's 'yet?'" Alice asks, sticking her thumb in her mouth.

I gently pull it out. "No thumb, Ali-cat."

"No thumb," she mutters back, very softly, lower lip pouting out.

"I'm not sure when 'yet' is," I admit. "I'll talk to Mama about it tonight. But for right now, go write some sentences and surprise me with how smart you are. I'll be out in just a few minutes."

They scamper off, and I watch them go. After I hear the kitchen chairs pull out and assume they're settled with paper and pencils from school, I lower onto my hands and knees again and saturate the sponge with mop water once again. I only have a bit left of the floor to do before I can tend to them and hear all about their days.

They're used to seeing me like this when they get home. I'm usually always doing something; whether that be cleaning, fixing something, or cooking. My hands are always busy. Because Mom and Libby are gone a lot, I'm depended on to run the house, and I'd like to think I do a pretty good job.

When something is broken - whether that be a button that's fallen off or the toilet overflowing - I fix it. There's rarely something that's out of my skill set. Since our dad passed away right before Alice was born and we don't have money for repairmen, I've acquired the skills of a plumber, electrician, mechanic, and craftsmen. There's not a lot I can't do.

"Sissy!" I hear, just as I'm emptying the mop bucket into the tub. "Sissy, I got a owie-owie!"

"What?" I call out.

"Got a owie!"

I set the bucket down in the tub as it drains slowly and wipe my hands on my ratty jeans as I come out of the bathroom. "What's going on?" I ask.

"Ali got a splinter," Kimmie says, looking over with worried eyes. "The table poked her."

I sigh, but I don't let them see my shoulders deflate. The table is falling apart, just like everything else in the house. There are sections they know to stay away from because of the unsanded wood, but a new part must have started getting rough.

"Show me," I say.

Alice is blubbering, holding one finger up with a very red tip. "It hurts!" she cries.

"I know," I say. "Just hold tight. I'll be right back."

"Don't get the needle!" Alice shrieks.

"Quiet now," I say, coming back with the item in question. "Hold still for me, honey."

She squirms away, so I set the needle on the table and hold her face gently with one hand cupped under her chin. "Sissy, no," she murmurs.

"Listen, baby," I say. "Do you trust me?" She nods. "Do you know I'm gonna get this splinter out of you?" She nods again. "It'll hurt for just one second. Just a little, tiny bite. Like a buggy bite."

"Make it go quick," she sniffles.

"Always," I say, and hold her small hand in mine with the hurt finger pointed out. I scoop the needle in and push the splinter out, and she yelps for a millisecond - but it's over before she can exhale. "See?" I say, and hold the splinter on the pad of my own finger.

She takes a shaky breath as she looks between the extracted splinter and her throbbing finger. Then, she holds it up with tears still leaking from her crystal blue eyes. "Kiss it?" she mutters.

"Of course," I say, then press a firm kiss to the affected spot. "You know my kisses have healing powers, right?"

She giggles, a wet-sounding, teary giggle. But at least I got a smile out of her. "'Cause you have magic in you," she says.

"That I do," I say, looking between my two little sisters. "But you can't tell anyone. You haven't told anyone about my magic lately, have you?"

They shake their heads solemnly.

"Good," I say. "Now, who can show me the sentences they wrote?"

…

Alice, Kimmie and I eat dinner together - a measly meal I scraped together of boxed mashed potatoes and boiled hot dogs without buns - and pretend our stomachs aren't still growling after we're done.

I clean up the kitchen while the girls fill up the tub for their bath - we don't have enough hot water for them to take separate ones - and they call for me when it's ready. Luckily, I've just scrubbed the last dish and I'm ready to accompany them as they wash up.

I sit on the floor while they're in the water, giggling and playing with the one toy each they're allowed to have in the bath. Alice has a plastic cat and Kimmie has a Polly Pocket with one arm, both of which they treasure.

"Heads back," I say, leaning with one elbow on the lip of the tub. I take a heavily-used cup and dump water over their ginger hair, turning it dark auburn from the fiery tone it usually holds. "Who had a good day today?" I ask, watching their dark eyelashes flutter.

"I did," Alice says, pink lips pulling up in a smirk. "I had a bestest day."

"I'm so glad to hear that," I say, dumping another cupful of water on each of their heads.

"I had a good day, too," Kimmie chimes in. "I got a gold star on my homework. And I got to be line leader."

"That's so amazing, Kim," I say.

"I got a extra milk at lunch," Alice says, opening her eyes with excitement.

"Lucky!" Kimmie says.

"I dranked it all up," Alice says. "Just like you telled me to, sissy."

"Very good," I say. "What's milk gonna help you guys do?"

"Get strong!" they cheer.

"Exactly," I say, then squirt shampoo onto both my palms to rub them together. "Who's ready for shampoo?"

I scrub it into each of their heads, lathering it up nice and fluffy so they get clean. We might not have the best clothes, enough food, or the sturdiest house, but I never let them go to school looking dirty.

I condition their hair and help them scrub their bodies, then wrap them both in towels once they're done. I lead them to our room and bang on the furnace in hopes to heat the space up a little, and we all change into pajamas in preparation to crawl into the bed we share.

Our house only has two bedrooms. I share this one with the two little ones, Mom has her own, and Libby sleeps on the couch in the living room. We do what we can.

I lie in the middle with a sleepy sister to either side of me. I wrap my arms around their shoulders and feel comforted by the damp weight of their heads resting on me, and their arms resting over my rumbling belly.

"Tell a story, sissy?" Kimmie asks.

I look between them. Alice's eyes are already closed and she's sucking her thumb, but I let it stay. I look to Kimmie's eyes, a sleepy blue, and nod my head.

"Once upon a time," I say. "There lived a princess. And she didn't have much, but she had enough. She had a roof over her head, a family who loved her, and a warm place to sleep at night. And that was perfectly fine by her, until…"

…

It's still dark outside when I'm shaken awake by my mother, her face just inches away from mine.

"April," she whispers, voice cutting through the darkness. "April, honey, wake up."

I rub my eyes and sit up halfway, wondering if I accidentally slept through my alarm. I check the clock and see it's not even 6am, though.

"What's going on?" I murmur softly, so not to wake my sisters.

"Come with me," she says. "I have something important to tell you."

"Okay…" I say, and carefully climb over Kimmie, who sleeps on the side nearest the nightstand. I wrap my arms around myself to keep warm; the house always gets cold at night, and my pajamas are thin.

Mom leads me past the living room, where Libby is asleep on the sagging couch. She takes me to the kitchen, where one small, yellow bulb is burning. It creates an isolating feeling; it seems we're the only people awake in the whole world.

"What's happening?" I ask, still very confused.

"Sit down," she says, and her face and voice are both serious.

"Mom, you're scaring me," I say, pretty awake now.

Adrenaline courses through my veins as I'm ready for whatever she might throw at me. Every member of our family is inside these four walls, so at the very least I'm comforted they're all safe. But I still have no idea what's going on or why she woke me up like she did.

"This is going to sound crazy," she says, shaking her head. "Crazy. I know. But I just need you to listen to me, and take me seriously. Can you do that, April?"

I nod slowly, though I don't know what I'm getting myself into.

She takes a deep breath. "You know the family I work for, the Averys?"

The Averys. Yes, of course I know them. They're one of the main families who run Chicago, their name is on everything. They couldn't care less about our side, the west side, but everybody with eyes knows who they are. I'm not the fondest of them, given how much more they could pay my mother and don't. Catherine Avery is a heavy-hitting politician, following in the footsteps of Harper Avery. I've also heard there's a son, only from word of mouth from the woman sitting next to me, though.

I nod. I don't say anything aloud.

"Well, Harper has just passed away," she says.

I wasn't aware of this because we don't have access to the news, but I can't find it within myself to care that much. His existence didn't impact me in any way.

"Okay…" I say.

"I need you to listen," she says, leaning forward with round eyes. "He had money to pass down, of course. A whole lot of it, and a good portion is supposed to go to his grandson, Jackson. The one I told you about, Catherine's son."

I nod again.

"Well, it's in Harper's will that Jackson can't see that money unless…" She sighs. "He can only see it on one condition: that he's married. And I've been around Jackson for a good seven years now, and he's not the marrying type. He's a bachelor if I ever saw one. A dapper, classy, sophisticated one, but all the same. He doesn't have a wife." She looks at me soberly. "And he needs one to get that money. If I know anything about the Averys, it's that they take their money very, very seriously. They will do anything to access it."

I have no idea where she's going with this, and I'm not sure if I should. It seems like she wants me to catch on, but I haven't the faintest clue what she's getting at.

"He needs a wife," she says, nudging her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. "I was in the room while this was being discussed, and Catherine knows I have daughters. She knows I have… you."

I furrow my eyebrows and pinch my lips. I was confused before and I still am, but I don't like the direction this is headed.

"Mom," I say, astounded. "No."

"Listen to me," she says, reaching out to grasp both of my hands. "They're willing to pay. Enough money to get us out of this house, out of this neighborhood. Enough money for Libby and I to only work one job each. Enough to get the kids into a better school, and get them good clothes that fit." Her eyes are teary, and I realize how dire this situation is. How serious she is about it. "It would be enough to live a life so much better than the one we're living," she says.

"Mom…" I say, eyes wide, shocked. "What... I still don't understand. What…?" I shake my head, at a loss for words.

"I know," she says. "I know it sounds crazy. But your life would be better, too. You'd live in a mansion, baby. You'd have enough food for once in your life, and you'd be warm. You'd have enough money, too. You'd have everything you ever wanted. We'd finally be able to crawl out of this hole, be out of the poorhouse." Her voice catches in her throat. "I know… I know it's so much to ask of you, and I shouldn't be doing this. I know. I know." She shakes her head and looks to the floor before lifting her eyes again to mine. "But I don't know what else to do. We're sinking, babe. And there's not much of another choice."

I feel like I might throw up whatever's lasting inside my empty stomach. In short, she's asking me to become Jackson Avery's wife so our family can finally have a life that's livable.

My throat clogs as I open my mouth to give her a vehement 'no.' But then, I remember the way Kimmie and Alice looked at me earlier, asking me to fix their tattered clothes. How their bathwater was tepid at best, and what little we had to scrape together for dinner. I think of everything we endure with smiles on our faces, and children as young as they are shouldn't have to know the hunger they've already experienced. They deserve more. We all do.

It doesn't seem I have much of a choice. If I said no, what kind of person would I be? Everything I do is for them, for my family. This should be no different. I want everything for them; they deserve a good life. And if I have the power to give them just that, then I'll do it. I'll do anything.

"I'm… supposed to marry him?" I ask, voice trembling.

Hope crosses my mother's face. "You'll be married soon," she says. "It'll happen fast. But you won't move far. We'll still see you. Of course, when we look better." Tears drip down her cheeks. "You don't know how much you're doing for us, sweet girl. I owe you my life."

"Mama, no you don't," I say, framing her face with both hands. "I want to do it. If it will help us, then I want to do it."

…

I don't sleep the rest of that night. I pack my things in a small suitcase that doesn't come close to filling up, and looking at what meager amount I have to my name is disheartening. But, after I'm done packing and the suitcase is zipped up, I let my eyes roam to the bed I'd been sleeping in just hours ago.

There lie my two sisters, sleeping soundly and curled into each other. Alice's ringlets are tumbling onto Kimmie's cheek, and the little one's thumb is still in her mouth. Their legs are tangled up and they're breathing in tandem; my heart swells just looking at them.

But it simultaneously breaks knowing I have to leave them.

So, I don't look for long. I roll the suitcase out of our room and silently pass by Libby, and sit on the front porch steps to watch the world wake up.

I don't know how long I spend outside before the front door finally creaks open. I swivel my shoulders to see who it is, and I find Alice in the doorway rubbing her teary eyes.

"Mama says you're goin' away," she says, her voice very small. "Where you goin', sissy?" She pads over in just her socks and plasters herself to my side. Of course, I wrap an arm around her right away. "Don't go."

"I have to," I say, rubbing her shoulder. "I'm gonna go somewhere, and then life is gonna be a lot better for you guys."

"No, it won't," she says. "'Cause you won't be here. Then, it's bad."

I chuckle softly, humorlessly. "I promise, it won't be forever," I say, though I'm not sure how much truth that statement holds. I don't know any details per this situation. I've only been told as much as my mother knew, and that wasn't much.

"Take me with."

"I wish I could," I say, turning to the side to tip her chin up with one finger. "That would be the best ever, wouldn't it?"

She nods, and when she blinks, more tears roll down her face to disappear beneath her chin. "Who will take care of us when you're gone?" she asks.

"Oh, baby," I say, holding her face with both hands now. "Mama will."

"Mama works too much."

"She doesn't have to anymore, because of what I'm gonna go do," I say. "I'm gonna help us out a ton. It's gonna be great, I promise."

As I sit there talking to my littlest sister, a shiny, black car pulls up in our short driveway. We both watch it, stunned, as a woman with dark hair slicked into a ponytail climbs out. She's already tall, and her high heels only perpetuate that fact as she walks with purpose towards the house. I've never seen someone look more out-of-place here.

"I'm looking for an 'April Kepner,'" she says, without lifting her sunglasses.

"I'm…" I say, looking up without standing. I'm too shocked. "That's me."

She juts a hand out. "My name is Calliope Torres. I'm a representative of the Avery family, and it seems as though you'll be coming with me."

I finally stumble to my feet, but I feel just as small as I did sitting. I only reach her shoulders with the tip of my head.

"I… can I say goodbye?" I ask.

She gives me a curt nod and says, "Don't be long."

She waits on the porch while I grab Alice's hand and take us both inside to where my mother and other sisters are waiting.

"They're here," I say, and Mom rushes over from the wooden rocking chair to take me in her arms.

"My baby," she says, holding me tight. I return the hug with just as much gusto. "You don't know how much I appreciate what you're doing for us. We'd never be able to…" She cuts herself off and pulls away to look at my face. "You are a gift sent straight from God."

I smile and wipe away my tears, leaning into her as she kisses my cheek. Libby gives me a hug that's just as big, and then I drop to my knees to take my little sisters in my arms as they both sob their hearts out.

"It'll be okay, I promise," I tell them, holding them close and secure. "I'll call you every night."

"You're gonna forget us!" Kimmie wails.

"No, no," I say, shaking my head and closing my eyes. "That would be impossible. I love you too much to forget you, don't say such a silly thing."

I kiss each of them over and over, lingering on the sides of their clean-smelling heads.

"You be good," I tell them. "And make me proud."

They sniffle and Alice says, "We will."

"I love you like crazy," I say. "Remember that."

They nod, and I stand to wrap my hand around the handle of my suitcase. I take one last glance at the four of them, then turn around in my shabby outfit and worn-down shoes to take a step towards my new life.

When I return to the porch, Calliope is standing in the exact spot I left her in. She takes one look at me, raises her eyebrows, and puts her phone away.

"You won't be needing that," she says, eyeing my bag. "I'm headed to Zac Posen for you."

"Who's he?" I ask, gripping the suitcase tighter.

She gives me a look I can't comprehend, mostly because I can't see her eyes behind the dark shades. "You just won't need it," she says. "We have everything you'll need at the Avery home."

I pull the bag closer, protective of it. It holds everything I've ever held dear. I don't plan on letting her chuck it to the side like it's garbage.

"I want to keep it," I say.

We stand in stagnant silence for a moment, challenging each other before she breaks and tells me to get in the back seat. I don't let the suitcase out of my sight, even there.

The car is cool and dark, unlike any other vehicle I've been in. I take the bus mostly, but Mom's car is a beat up Toyota without working AC. Needless to say, this is much different.

"We're going to get you spruced up," Calliope says through the rearview mirror. "I'm taking you to Sine Qua Non downtown for an entire body and hair makeover. They'll get you made up for the ceremony, and while that's happening, I'll pick up your dress."

"From Zac?" I ask, remembering the name she dropped earlier.

She makes a sound in her throat that I might mistake for a stifled laugh if she weren't such a stuffed shirt.

"Yes," she says. "From Zac."

…

At the salon, personal space doesn't exist. I'm stripped down to a robe and nothing else, and I've never felt more exposed. I get a haircut without being asked what style I'd like, a manicure, a pedicure, and an all-inclusive skin treatment. They wax my legs and insist on giving me a 'Brazilian,' but after I learn what that is, I don't let them anywhere near me. I take care of that area on my own, and I don't need strangers in it. I already feel violated as it is.

Once everything is over - my hair curly and voluminous, more makeup than I've ever worn painstakingly applied, and all my nails painted a blush pink - Calliope walks into the salon with a garment bag in hand that she's handling very carefully.

"Your dress is here," she says. "From Zac. And we need to get to the venue soon, so I need you to change here." I give her an unsure look. "I know, not glamorous. But time is money, and we absolutely cannot be late."

I get up and walk over to retrieve the bag and shoes. The bag says ZAC POSEN in fancy script, and I get the idea that she was pulling my leg by telling me it came directly from Zac himself. I can't help smiling to myself; at least she's capable of joking.

"Put this on," she says. "We need to leave in five minutes."

"Okay," I say.

I tuck my hair behind my ears, reach for the bag, and she hands it over gently - like it's precious. I decide to treat it as such, if she is. "They did a nice job on you," she says, giving me a once-over. "He'll like you very much."

I can't help but blush. The thought that I'll have a husband later today is almost one that slipped my mind, there's been so many other things going on. It's a strange thing to wrap my head around. I've only ever had one serious boyfriend, so this is uncharted territory for me. Who would've thought...a husband. Jackson Avery as my husband, no less. One of the richest men in Chicago, at least once that ring is on his finger. I guess I can take credit for that.

I retreat into the posh powder room and hang the garment bag on a hook, taking one step back to unzip it. I shed the robe and hang it up nicely, standing there completely naked and feeling every inch of it. I'm a modest person in general and I don't spend much time naked. When I do, it's definitely not in glitzy bathrooms like this.

I look at the dress and take it in, noticing the off-the-shoulder straps, icy white color, and sweetheart neckline. I've never worn anything like this in my life, and I can't help but wonder how much it costs. Of course, being such a high-end item, there's no price tag on it like there would be if it were from Target or TJ Maxx, where I'm used to shopping.

There's a pair of underwear inside the bag that are obviously meant for me, but I've never seen anything smaller. As I hold them in my hands, I can easily see it's a thong, but it's a tiny one. It's like floss. I don't wear thongs in the first place, and I'm not sure how I'm supposed to walk with this wedged between my buttcheeks. I frown at the garment, tiny yet well made, and step into it knowing I don't have another choice.

I look down to see it barely covers the front, and I feel self-conscious about the back. Everything is out in the open, and when I look in the mirror I'm shocked. There's even a tiny bow at the top of the back waistline, and I'm so embarrassed.

I can't help but notice there's no bra included, which puzzles me. I think it must be a mistake, so I pick my robe up and use it to cover the front half of my body as I walk to the door and peek my head out.

"Calliope?" I peep.

"Are you ready?" she asks, without looking up from her phone.

"Uh, no," I say. "Could you, uh, come here? Possibly?"

She looks up and sees what sort of state I'm in and sighs, coming closer with a purposeful click-clack of her heels. "What?" she snaps.

"You forgot to give me a bra," I say, quietly, so no one else will hear. "I got the…" I clear my throat. "Underwear. But there's no…"

"The dress isn't worn with a bra," she states simply. "It's an off-the-shoulder dress. Honey, did you think your straps were just going to be out there, loud and proud? It doesn't work like that."

"But…" I say, eyes wide. "I won't have anything to…"

"Right now, you're covering them with your hands and I see nothing," she says. "No offense, sweetie, but you don't have enough to work with to be worried. Now, please god, get back in there and put that dress on. We're running out of time."

I do as she says, shutting the door again to stand in silence with only the dress to keep me company. I carefully take it off the hanger and unzip it, then step into the skirt and pull it up my body. I situate the straps on my arms where I think they should go, then hold it in place while I look in the mirror.

I've never seen myself look like this before. I don't know if I recognize my reflection, and I don't know if I should.

"Calliope?" I say again, not bothering with going to the door because I know she's standing right there.

"What is it now?" she barks.

"Can you come in?" I ask. "I need to be zipped."

"Oh," she says, then pushes the door open. She looks at me and her eyes catch, but I can't look back. Though the dress is beautiful and I've never been this glamorous, it feels like I'm wearing a mask, and for some reason that's making me shy. "It does fit you perfectly," she says, pulling the zipper up to where it stops. "How do you feel?"

I look in the mirror, but I only last for a moment or so. "I don't know," I admit.

She places a hand at the small of my back, and it's the first halfway-warm action I've received from her. I decide to take it and run with it, relishing the feeling of someone else supporting me. I think I'm going to need it.

…

The car ride is silent on the way to the Avery mansion, where Jackson and I will be married by an officiant in their backyard. The only audience will be Catherine and Calliope, and the lawyers of course. It won't be a warm gathering, but a legal one. I've never been more nervous in my life, and I pray my hands won't sweat too badly when it comes time to touch him.

When we get out of the car, I do my best not to gawk. I'm sure it wouldn't be appreciated, and it does my stomach good not to stare. Because if I stare, I'll start thinking about how much money all of this is worth, and I can't handle that right now. Not in the frame of mind I'm in.

Calliope takes my arm and helps me walk in the shoes she says are Jimmy Choo. If I were in a joking mood, I might ask her if that means they're anything like Charleston Chew, but I don't do that. I'm not that dumb.

"They know we're here," she says. "Try not to be so nervous."

"Yeah," I say, and by my tone I hope she can tell how unlikely that is.

When I catch sight of Jackson, I forget how to breathe. My mom always talked about how handsome he is, but those were just words. This, who I'm looking at right now, is the real thing. His skin is glowing in the late afternoon light, and his eyes pierce through mine like two diamonds. His suit, probably designer as well, fits him perfectly. I've never seen an article of clothing so tailored. His hands are clasped at his waist and he's standing with perfect posture, barely blinking. He looks like some sort of Greek god statue - unwavering, untouchable. But somehow, he'll be mine.

As we get closer, all I want to do is turn tail and run in the opposite direction. But Calliope keeps us moving, even when my feet fail and I do a stutter step, caused by making eye contact with my husband-to-be for the first time. Looking at him takes my breath away, though I know I'm being shallow. He's marrying me for money; his own, no less. This shouldn't mean anything to me, because it means nothing to him. I promise myself that it doesn't, it won't; I'm just caught up in his otherworldly looks.

I'm sure he's seen plenty of girls who look like me. I'm probably nothing special, just a name on a piece of paper that will get him his fortune, so I have to be good enough.

"Jackson," Calliope says. "This is April, your wife."

He extends an arm fluidly, gracefully, with an open hand. I stare at it, knowing I'm supposed to reciprocate the gesture, but I can't seem to move. It takes a moment for the synapses in my brain to fire before my arm surges out in an unnatural fashion, my hand practically colliding with his. I smile nervously, but he doesn't return the sentiment. He just shakes my hand in a businesslike manner, and returns to the stance he'd begun in.

"Have a little heart," the woman next to him says. I assume she must be Catherine, his mother. "Show some decency. You owe her as much."

"It's lovely to meet you," he says, and those words alone are a song. His voice is low, gravelly, and impossibly smooth. Like a hot drink on a cold day, it sits with me perfectly.

"You, too," I say.

"The dress seems to work," he says eyeing me. "I'm glad to see as much. I picked it out myself, so I hoped for the best. Your body proves to be a good model."

Catherine looks at me, and I notice her eyes are warmer than his. "That's his way of saying that you look stunning, dear," she says. "And I promise, you do. Get used to wearing the finer things. They suit you well."

I flash her a weak, trembling smile, and feel I must be dreaming. None of this can possibly be real. It's like I'm living someone else's life, in another dimension. Things like this don't happen to girls like me.

But it does happen. I stand across from Jackson Avery and, after a few words exchanged and the trading of rings, become April Avery, his lawfully wedded wife. We sign the papers, forgo the kiss, and make it official.

…

The ring is incredibly heavy on my finger as we sit in the back of a limousine, on the way to a brand new mansion built in his name. It will be our married home, Catherine told me, but I have no idea how to take that in. Me? Living in a mansion? The house I just left was less than 1,000 square feet.

So, when we pull past the gates and into the turnaround driveway, I can't help but gape at the massive house that lies before us. Jackson doesn't falter, though. He just exits the car and comes around to open the door for me, which I hadn't expected. I get out slowly, taking in the sight, and trip a bit in my shoes as I try to digest what's happening.

"This is…" I begin, but my words fall off.

"Mine," he says, but catches himself and amends his statement. "Excuse me. Ours."

A small man dressed in a sharp suit comes up beside me and says, "Mrs. Avery. Your bag, madam."

I look at him strangely, having no earthly idea what he's doing. "Excuse me?" I say.

"Your bag, my lady," he says, and I remember that my suitcase is next to me, the bag from my old life that now seems a million miles away.

"Oh!" I say. "Oh, don't worry about that. I can get it."

He stands there awkwardly, giving me an expectant, unusual look. He doesn't leave.

"My arms aren't broken," I say, laughing cordially. "And truth be told, there's not much inside it."

"You won't be needing it," Jackson pipes up, and I look over to where he's standing, smoking a cigar. I screw up my eyebrows at the sight, and he notices my reaction. "It's celebratory," he says, exuding a puff of smoke. "We've just been married. Would you have rather popped a bottle of champagne, Mrs. Avery?"

I don't know how to take him. I have no idea if he's joking or not, and I'm not sure which I'd prefer.

"I do need my bag," I say, a bit indignantly. "There are important things in there. My things."

"We have plenty of things for you here. More than enough things."

"But these are mine," I say, persistent. "And they won't be going anywhere but with me. So, if you'll excuse me…" I pick up the bag and push my way somewhat rudely past the man next to me. "I'll find my way to my room."

"Our room," Jackson says, without raising his voice, but somehow it still carries the distance. "Take it to our room, darling, if you're so determined."

I nod my head in a forced manner and make my way inside the ostentatious front doors. What lies before me takes my breath away - it's the most ornate, immaculate house I've ever seen. The floors are marble, there's a staircase that fans out to either side, with a sparkling, detailed chandelier above my head. I don't belong here, that much is blatantly clear.

I don't have a clue where any of the rooms are, so I just make my way upstairs. There are bedrooms upon bedrooms, bathrooms upon bathrooms, and I am absolutely sure I'll get lost in this place more than once.

I make it to one that looks cozy and small, also one that I'm sure is not the master bedroom. I set up in it anyway, changing very carefully out of the Zac Posen dress and taking the painful shoes off. Once I'm out of the floss-like underwear, I put my own back on and dig out a pair of old sweatpants and a t-shirt of Libby's that's always been my favorite. It has our high school logo on it, and it's signed by a bunch of her friends. Once I'm in clothes I recognize, I feel more like myself. Just in a very strange environment. I don't think anyone has ever embodied the phrase 'fish out of water' more than I do right this second.

I begin to unpack, taking my humble items from my suitcase to either lie them flat in drawers or set them atop the dresser. I don't have many trinkets and I have even less clothes, but it's nice to see things from my old room in this one.

There's a framed picture of me and all my sisters, and individual ones of their school portraits from this year. In hers, Kimmie is missing one of her front teeth. Alice's freckles are shining like the sun, and all I want to do is be able to reach out and touch them. I already miss my family so much it hurts, and I know the pain will only get worse. I can only hope looking at these photos will help in the smallest way.

I'm turned in the opposite direction when Jackson walks up the stairs, so I don't hear him come in. I only notice his presence when he speaks, saying, "What's this?"

I flip around, heart racing, feeling guilty though I can't be sure why. In his hands, he holds a folded, blue square, and he's running his thumbs over the material. It had been resting at the foot of my bed.

"Don't touch that," I say, and it comes as an order. I snatch it from him and tuck it under a pillow, and he gives me a look. "Sorry," I say, feeling quite subdued. "But just… please, don't touch that."

"Noted," he says, and doesn't stay for any further conversation. Instead, he turns around and leaves much in the way he came, completely silently.

I sit on the end of my bed for a while, and tune in when I hear conversation from down the hall. This house is so big and cavernous, any sound is easy to pick up.

"... your wife. And you're her husband. A bit strange to be acting so cold around each other, no? Is there something wrong, something I should know about?"

I think it's the voice of the butler who tried to take my bag, and he sounds suspicious. Right then, it dawns on me that even the people closest to the Averys don't know of our arrangement.

"Of course nothing is wrong, Antonio, don't be silly," Jackson says, using a tone that sounds superior even from here. "She's tired. You saw her, she's a tiny little thing. A wisp of a woman, she needs her rest. Don't bother her."

"I didn't plan on it, sir," he says. "Just sparked my curiosity is all. I'll be downstairs, in the parlor, if there's anything you need."

Silence follows, and my gut twists with nerves. How is this supposed to work if Antonio lives in this house, too? I have no idea, but I remind myself it's not my job to figure that out. It's my job to be his wife, and I signed the papers. I'm not sure what else is entailed.

A few moments later, I hear my name being called.

"April," Jackson says. "If you could meet me in the parlor, please."

I get up from the bed instantly as I see him pass the door, not dressed in his wedding suit anymore, but his lounge clothes are much nicer than mine. I feel grossly underdressed, but at the same time there's not much to be done about it. I want to be in my own clothes so I can feel closer to home, and I don't plan on changing.

I do make my way down to the parlor, though, but not without nerves. When I arrive, I see Antonio in the corner, polishing glasses with a cloth, and Jackson is by the picture window. He beckons me with a nod of his head, and I walk towards him with caution.

"There you are," he says, once I get closer enough. He stretches out his arms, captures my waist, and pulls me in. "My beautiful little wife. Just look at you."

My hair has fallen out, I'm sure my makeup is smudged, and I'm exhausted. I have no idea what he's looking at, but he must be wearing rose-colored glasses at the very least.

All I do is smile. I'm not sure how to reciprocate.

He holds my face with the side of his hand. "I've been dying to kiss you," he says, and as he closes his eyes I get the hint that that's exactly what he's going to do. So, I quickly match his movements and close mine, too, then let myself get lost in the way his lips feel.

It's a chaste kiss, but that doesn't mean the feelings inside me stay that way. My heart beats wildly and my blood heats up, and I find myself breathing him in. When we pull apart, I'm breathless and he looks nothing short of satisfied.

"You're perfect," he says, stroking my cheek. "And, imagine. I was lucky enough to marry you."

I give him another smile, this one less confident. He continues to hold me around the waist, admiring me, until Antonio leaves the room. The butler's eyes had been on us the whole time.

Then, once we're alone, he releases me. Not forcefully or harshly, but enough to let me know I'm dismissed. We did all we needed to do; the suspicious voice was silenced.

So tonight, we'll sleep in different wings of the largest house I've ever seen. And on the first night of my marriage, I'll feel more alone than I've ever felt in my life.


	2. Chapter 2

**JACKSON**

"You couldn't have done better? Honestly?"

Sitting across from me in the study, my mother's eyes are two daggers. I know she's unhappy with me, but I'm not all too pleased with her this morning, either. She came over to have coffee at the break of dawn, while the house was still silent. Antonio is busying himself somewhere, and my new wife has made herself scarce. Whether she's sleeping or doing something else, I can't be sure.

"Watch your tone," she says, setting her mug down. "When did you become so entitled?"

"Since you raised me this way," I say, leaning back in the chair. "It's not like you have much of a counterargument, anyway. She's so…" I raise my lip for effect. "Common."

Mother shakes her head. "You disgust me sometimes, you know," she says. "When you behave like your father's son."

I laugh incredulously. "That's rich," I say. "Coming from the person who won't think about the poor parts of the city, let alone breathe in them. Please don't make me laugh, mother. It's not worth it."

"I'm not sure you know how," she says.

"It's a shame, my tutors never got around to that," I say. "But, I digress. You're saying you couldn't find anyone with more class? Who holds themselves a bit higher?"

She squints, scrutinizing me in the way I dislike so much. "For your information, son," she says. "Hiring April Kepner was the best decision any of us could have made. And, of course, no one else but me would've made it. Don't you understand? Her mother already works for us, and they're poorer than dirt. You couldn't begin to wrap your pretty little mind around how poor they are, so don't bother trying. You'd strain yourself."

I scoff and roll my eyes.

"They won't back out for anything," she says, leaning forward. "What would one of your wealthy little friends have as a token in this game? Not a thing." She crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows. "The Kepner family has everything to lose. Their livelihood banks on the fact that Miss April stays here, happily married to the heir. They can't survive without our money. It disappears, and the two little ones are good as dead." She gives me a look. "And you might not know a thing about trust, but I do. And I trust this family to follow through with our arrangement. If I didn't, you wouldn't be betrothed to a sweet little redhead. Believe me, son. When I say I know what's best for you and your name, I mean it."

I don't have much to say in response, so I set my cup down and stand up from the armchair. She watches me rise with a knowing look, and gives a slight nod of her head.

"You don't run this house," I say, my voice cool and calm. "You're under my roof now."

"I may not run this one," she says. "But I run plenty others, and I hold more power than you can imagine. I _allow_ you to govern your life, Jackson. Don't make the mistake of thinking otherwise."

I scoff and throw her a sidelong glance. "I'm almost 26, mother. You're kidding yourself."

All she nods is curtly nod, eyebrows raised. I can't stand when she acts like this - so superior. Given it's her default setting, it's the main reason we don't spend much time together. Our interactions usually occur through liaisons or over the phone. I can't stomach her for much more.

"If you'd kindly leave me and my business alone," I say, standing stiffly behind the chair. "I'd greatly appreciate it."

"By your business, do you mean your wife?" she asks, tipping her head to the side.

I clear my throat. I hadn't meant that - my wife continues to slip my mind. But my mother doesn't need to know that.

"Precisely," I say. "And since you've made it clear there was no other choice but yours, we can drop the subject." I set my jaw. "From here on out, what happens between my wife and me will stay between us."

"That is, if you decide to acknowledge her existence," my mother says, coolly.

"I'm on the way to wake her now," I say. "We have a busy day ahead."

"Have a lovely time," she says, standing now as well. "I'll be looking forward to seeing the photos."

I don't watch her leave. Instead, I turn and make my way towards the east wing of the house, where my wife decided to claim her territory in a guest room that would've gone unused otherwise. When we arrived, I hadn't given the slightest thought to our sleeping arrangements or her level of comfort. It doesn't bother me that she'd rather not sleep in the same bedroom, but the prospect of Antonio finding out isn't ideal.

Antonio was my grandfather's right hand, and his family has been serving ours for nearly three generations. He's been around since before I was born, and has watched me grow into the man I am today. He's reliable, but in no way trustworthy. At certain points in time, information has leaked about our family - nothing too detrimental, luckily - that seemed impossibly secretive. All signs pointed to Antonio, the only one privy to the inner workings of our lives, but no proof was ever dug up. My grandfather always insisted he'd never do such a thing, but I disagree. It's like he's in the walls, always watching, always waiting for something to go wrong, so he can sell information to whatever media source he can.

Because of this, it's imperative that he stay in the dark about my marriage arrangement. The fact that my wife and I are bonded by a marriage of opportunity is on a need-to-know basis - being that only myself, my mother, Callie, my wife, and her mother know. For everyone else, it will stay under wraps. Even the people working in our home. To them, we must seem happily married, so in love that we couldn't wait another day to make it official.

Of course, the little redhead isn't making things easy. She doesn't understand the gravity of the situation; that's become very clear. She wouldn't be behaving in such a hardheaded manner if she did. Money matters in this world, especially the one she now lives in. She has to learn to work the game, or else she'll ruin everything for both of us. Her family will return to living in poverty, and I'll never see either halves of the money my grandfather left to start my empire.

It's not clear yet, the goal of this fortune, except for the expected. Of course, I'd never live any other way than I do now. But I feel the need to do something else with it, to make something of my powerful name rather than just be someone the public knows for no real reason. Jackson Avery is, in fact, a household name. Especially in Chicago, where I'm a well-known socialite. When I show up somewhere, everyone shows up. With money, comes status. And with status, comes notoriety.

My wife will have to learn to shoulder that weight, too. She'll have to hold her own. I didn't get married with the intent to teach her to swim. That's not my job, and I'll make that very clear. If she can't keep up with my social life, then this arrangement simply won't work. And she has too much at stake, or so I've learned, for it not to work.

I'm sure, with the help of the money I'll soon be coming into, I'll find my direction. Over anything, to get my mother to stop saying I'm 'directionless' with no motivation. I have plenty of motivation, just not for anything she demands I have it for. I have no interest in joining her world of politics, and that won't change. She can't stand that I won't follow in her footsteps, but - like she said just moments ago - I am my father's son. Neither of us were cut out for that life. He found his passion in making art and selling it - he was a wonderful, prolific painter before he died when I was fourteen. I've never tried my hand at it, and I don't plan on it. Imagining myself even attempting his caliber is laughable.

Once I get near the bedroom that my wife claimed as her own, I notice the door cracked open. Assuming she must not be inside, I push it further to find I'm wrong. I'm surprised, though - sleeping with the door open is unheard of. To me, it would be a violation of privacy. I don't need the help snooping to see what I do behind closed doors. She apparently has no such mindset.

The door doesn't creak when it swings and therefore, she doesn't stir. Her suitcase still sits on the foot of the bed, along with that small blue thing she was so protective over yesterday. I still can't discern what it is, but I have no interest. The little trinkets and knickknacks sitting atop her dresser are cheap and unmeaningful; they ruin the aesthetic of an otherwise pristine room.

She's lying on her side, curled into a ball and wearing pajamas that don't match. A pair of yellow drawstring shorts cover the tops of her pale legs, and a baggy t-shirt dwarfs her upper half. Her hands are tucked by her face with her lips pushed out, and a mop of fiery curls lies in a nest behind her. She looks peaceful, but I don't watch her for more than a second. I move my gaze to the clock, where I see that it's a bit past 8. Something tells me she's never gotten to sleep in before.

I open my mouth to say something, to rise her, but no words come. I don't think I want to wake her, and I tell myself it's because I'm enjoying the peace and quiet of my own home for the first time. I don't need her trailing after me in a cloud of dust, asking questions I have no patience to answer. The longer she sleeps, the less time I have to spend with her, which is all the better for me.

I shut the door all the way and it makes a soft clicking sound. I exit the east wing and head towards the basement, where the entertainment is. But, unfortunately, I run into Callie along the way.

"Avery," she says, nodding politely.

"Torres," I respond.

I expect only a passing greeting, but I'm not that lucky. She stops in her tracks and assumes I'll do the same, so I have no other choice.

"How's married life treating you?" she asks.

I sigh inwardly, but not externally. "Fine," I answer.

"Just fine?" she says, eyebrows raised. "You're not over the moon with wedded joy?"

"Very funny," I say.

Callie Torres has been my personal assistant for almost five years, so we have a certain rapport and closeness. I know when she's kidding, though I never laugh at her jokes. We're comfortable enough for her to be able to poke and prod at me, though it's less than amusing. She knows she can get away with it because she's been loyal to our family for years.

"Where is your tiny beloved, anyway?" she says.

"Still asleep," I respond.

She shoots me a look. "Don't you think it's time you woke her?"

"Why?" I ask.

"Because it's what married people do," she says. "And I heard from Antonio, the secret agent, that you two didn't sleep in the same room last night. Let alone the same bed. She's staying in an entirely different wing." She crosses her arms, shifts her weight to one hip. "If you want to convince everyone in this house, you're doing a piss-poor job."

"It was her choice," I say. "What am I supposed to do, force her?"

"Yes."

"She doesn't understand," I say, gesticulating with my hands. "She doesn't understand how important this is."

"Well, make her," Callie says. "Your public is watching you like a hawk, and there are always eyes on the inside. And those are much more dangerous than the ones out there."

"I know," I say. "Believe me, I'm fully aware of that fact."

"Then do better," she insists.

"She should be allowed to sleep in," I say.

Callie scoffs. "Don't play like you care."

"My wife deserves her beauty rest," I say.

"'Your wife,''" she retorts. "Do you even know her name?"

"Of course I do," I say, then wave her off. "I've had enough. I won't be spoken to like this any further."

"You sound like a child," she says, shaking her head. "Sometimes, I wish you could hear yourself."

…

I don't follow orders, and that's not up for debate. So, I let my wife sleep in for as long as she wants. I'm not sure when she wakes, because I stay sequestered in my wing until the sun goes down and I receive a few invites to head into the city. I can't think of anything better to get me out of this house, so I gladly accept.

I call Antonio to bring the dry cleaning, and he dutifully hangs up the garment bags while I get the shower started.

"Are you headed out tonight, Mr. Avery?" he asks, voice level and unaffected as it usually is.

"Yes," I say, lingering shirtless in the open area of the bathroom.

"Will your wife be accompanying you?"

I open my mouth to say that no, she won't, but in that moment I see why he asked. The small redhead just walked by the door, dressed in casual loungewear, arms crossed over her chest. She peeked in for merely a second and disappeared again, but that hair is impossible to miss. My mother couldn't have picked anyone with a more conspicuous appearance.

"I…" I stammer, then compose myself. "Yes, she will."

"I'll be sure she knows, sir."

"Thank you, Antonio."

I get in the shower and grit my teeth, balling my fists over the interaction that just transpired. The last thing I want is for her to come along - tonight was supposed to be carefree, a break from the pretending, but now it'll be a show on a show. Having her by my side forces me to act as a husband and she a wife. That's not the sort of 'night out' I imagined.

I get out of the shower a while later and almost jump back in with shock. She's standing right there, still in those awful clothes, just staring at me.

"Jesus Christ," I say, turning my head violently to the side. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting," she says, and her voice throws me off. I'd forgotten what it sounds like over such an extended period of silence, and it's refreshing. It's light, higher than what I usually hear, and airy. She's unassuming in every sense; she embodies the word.

"For what, exactly?"

"For you," she says, eyes wide and doe-like. In the excellent lighting of the bathroom, it's clear to see they're a deep, emerald green. Her pupils are dilated, though, so there's only a sliver of color.

"May I ask why?"

"Antonio said you'd help me find something to wear," she says, then nods towards the massive walk-in closet. "In the closet. Our shared closet."

It dawns on me, then. Of course, that would make sense. Given the assumption that a married couple would share a room, there's no doubt our new wardrobes would be split in one place.

"Oh," I say. "Right."

"I don't have anything of my own," she says. "So, I hope you don't mind if I borrow something for tonight."

"It's not borrowing," I say, a bit brusquely. "You own these things now. Please, have the wherewithal to remember that."

"Oh," she says, very meekly. "Okay."

I shoot her a look, holding the towel in place around my waist. Her hair is a mess, still crimped from the style it was in yesterday. There's old makeup smudged on her face, and her clothes are dirty and wrinkly.

"Get cleaned up," I say. "And I'll find something for you to wear."

"Okay…" she says, so quiet I almost don't hear.

"Top-of-the-line shampoos and conditioners are stocked in the master shower for you, madam," Antonio says, and his sudden appearance makes both of us jump. "I ordered them specifically for you."

"Oh," she says, shoulders caving as she turns to look at the butler.

If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was doing this on purpose. But his face tells me nothing; it's as blank as ever.

"So, should I… should I shower in here?" she asks, looking between the two of us. "I don't… I don't know. Wherever you want me."

"A husband and wife should share a master bathroom, should they not?" Antonio asks, letting his eyes rest on me for a long moment. He's getting on my last nerve. "I'll have the cleaning staff move your things to the west wing while you're out, madam. I understand the day was long and taxing yesterday. You couldn't have been expected to find it and get settled." He smiles tightly. "But I shouldn't want the married couple separated any longer."

"Th-thank you," she stutters, wringing her hands. "That's very kind of you, Antonio."

After that, he walks away with purpose, and she turns towards me looking scared out of her mind.

"He can't have reason to be suspicious," I say, and leave it at that before turning my back. "Don't worry. I won't look at you."

She slowly spins to face the shower, struggling for a moment before finally turning it on. I hear the water spray onto the tile and glance to the long mirror, where I catch sight of her undressing. I only let my eyes stay for a moment - I told her I wouldn't look - but I can't help noticing what's in front of me.

When she strips off her shirt, I'm able to count nearly every rib showing through her back. Her shoulder blades jut out like birds' wings, and her spine protrudes in a way I've never seen - and I've seen plenty of naked women. She's not only skinny, she's close to being emaciated.

I quickly turn away, stomach toiling with words I should say. I wait for the screen glass door to shut and for her to disappear inside the shower, then take a few steps closer.

I clear my throat, but she doesn't respond. I try again, then notice the sound of the water change as she steps out from under the stream. Before I know it, her head comes out sopping wet with little rivulets of water running down her face. I notice, for the first time, that she's somewhat pretty in a demure sort of way.

"I have a name, you know," she says. "If getting my attention is what you're trying to do." She glares at me and tries to seem tough. I resist the urge to laugh. "You haven't said my name a single time. It's April," she insists.

I'm taken aback by her candor. "My apologies," I say, though the words are thin and we both know it. "But I couldn't help wondering if you'd eaten since arriving here."

We haven't been in the house long, but I've had plenty of meals already. I don't miss them, not ever. So, the concept of going without is a strange and foreign one to me.

"Why?" she asks.

I take a pause before answering. "Because this is your home, too," I say, forcing the words. "The food is there for your consumption whenever you please."

She doesn't say anything for a while, but I stay where I am - half-dressed and waiting for a response.

"I haven't," she says.

"Why not?" I shoot back.

"I'm used to being hungry," she says, casually, like the words mean nothing. "I guess it just slipped my mind."

I scoff. "It slipped your mind that people should eat three meals a day?"

Her voice comes quieter when she says, "You make that sound so easy."

"Well, it is," I say. "You ring for the chef and he'll make you whatever you want. And I mean whatever. Lobster, quiche, pasta… quesadillas, toast, I don't know. Anything. I don't want you to skip meals anymore. It's not healthy. You need to put on some weight."

"What do you mean, I _need_ to?" she snaps.

"Exactly what I said," I retort. "Why would my supposedly healthy wife look like she's being starved?"

"I do not look like that."

I open my mouth to continue the argument, but think better of it. I close my lips and shake my head, then turn to return to the closet. "Please, just eat," I say. "And finish up quickly. Callie will come to help you get ready."

…

By the time we're ready to leave, I'm in an Armani suit and April is dressed in Saint Laurent. It's one-shouldered, black, and covered in subtle sequins. Her hair is tossed into an updo and her makeup has been done professionally, but she can barely stand upright in her high heels.

"Hold my arm," I say, using a sharp tone as she wobbles. I can't stand to see her without poise; I'll get eaten alive for sponsoring such behavior. "And do not let go."

"I don't like being ordered around," she says. "I have a mind of my own. You might not be familiar with that concept."

I turn my head to look at her, baffled. "Where do you get off talking to me like that?"

She narrows her eyes, her beautifully done-up eyes. "It doesn't feel good, does it?" she says. "Being belittled."

I don't entertain her statement. Instead, I lead the way at a brisk clip to the car, and help her inside first. The divider is rolled up, so as the the driver backs out of the driveway, we're kept in cool silence.

She looks out the window, hands clasped in her lap and knees pressed firmly together. I can't help staring at her legs - now that they're lotioned and she's wearing heels, they look entirely different than they did earlier. Her presence isn't so small and quiet anymore. She might not know it, but she commands a room. It might have something to do with the outfit giving her a confidence boost. Anything would be a step up from that awful loungewear.

I clear my throat, but she doesn't acknowledge me. I see her eyes flit over, but her head doesn't move. Then, I remember our exchange in the bathroom.

"April," I say, and she looks at me willingly with a fake smile painted on her lips. It comes nowhere near reaching her eyes. "You're my wife."

She holds up her left hand and wiggles her fingers, flashing the huge ring I had made for her. It's hulking on her delicate hand, and I can't help but feel a sense of pride over it.

"I'm very aware," she says.

"I mean, this is everything now," I say. "We're going out in public. We're married. We have no other choice but to act like it."

"I won't be acting like anything if you expect me to be dragged around all night," she says, and my face heats up with anger.

"Do you know what I'm doing for you?" I bellow, which makes her jump as my voice fills the small area of the car. "I took your family off the goddamn streets."

She comes closer, leaning in, the fear having passed. "And I made you a married man," she says. "Where would your inheritance go if I walked away?" She sits back and shakes her head. "You need me as much as I need you. So, don't go painting me as the poor, little victim. I'm doing just as much for you as you are for me. And you're the one who asked. I didn't want any of this."

"You didn't want your siblings lifted out of poverty?"

"This!" she shrieks, gesturing up and down with one hand. "A domineering husband and a life in the 1%."

I clench my jaw and back off, seeing as her chin has begun to wobble and her eyes have grown glassy. The last thing I need from her is tears. I have no idea how to console a woman.

"I plan on being good to you," I say, trying my best to sound genuine because I want to mean it. I'm just not sure how to go about it. "If you'll return the favor."

"Of course I'll return it," she says, trying to hide her sniffles by facing away the other way. The watery tone of her voice isn't a very good camouflage, though. "I'm a good person."

She looks at me with just her eyes, hooded and guarded now. The expression is enough to let me know she doesn't think the same of me, and I wonder if she's right. Everyone else in my life would agree, and always has. Except for my father, but he doesn't count anymore. He's dead.

I don't know how to convince her otherwise, though.

"I'm your husband," I say. "I'll be good to you." We pull up to the venue, where camera flashes are already blitzing outside. "Now, take my arm."

She frowns, lowering her eyebrows again. So, I amend my statement.

"Please."

…

I wouldn't label myself as a person who has 'friends.' I have connections. I see the same people in a lot of the same places, and we're friendly with each other. We drink together, party together, but I don't ever see them outside of the club scene.

But tonight, they'll be introduced to April. And since they pull a significant amount of weight in the social scene as well, it's important they believe what we've done is legitimate. If they don't, it's as bad as the word being sold directly to the media.

She clings to me like the moment she lets go, she'll be washed out to sea. With both arms wrapped around mine, her grip is tighter than what I imagined she'd be capable of.

"I don't like them," she says, gravitating even closer to me as we approach my group of people.

"You haven't met them yet," I point out. "Don't make snap judgments."

"It's not a snap judgment, it's a fact," she says. "I don't like the way they're looking at me."

"They're not looking at you in any way," I say, keeping the eye roll to myself as we approach. We're only steps away from them, there's no space for any further conversation.

"Jackson Avery!" Owen Hunt says, welcoming me with open arms.

Standing with him is his girlfriend Cristina Yang, Meredith Grey and her husband Derek Shepherd, and Alex Karev and his fiance Jo Wilson. I see these people frequently, yet I don't know much of anything beneath the surface. I don't have the desire to, really.

"Nice to see you," Meredith says, settling her eyes on April without trying to be subtle. "And who might this dashing young lady be?"

"This," I say, unwinding my arm from April's only to wrap it around her shoulders. "Is my wife, April."

All of their eyes go wide. "Wait a second. Did you say 'wife?'" Owen says.

"I can't believe you guys didn't hear about this," Jo says. "Didn't you see the spread in _People_?"

"I didn't," Derek says.

"Well, it was on the cover. So, I don't see how you idiots missed it," Cristina says, then extends a hand for April. It takes her a moment to register, but April shakes it after a moment. "I'm Cristina Yang," she says. "Interloper. Among the rest of them, you'll find 'dumb,' 'dumber,' and a few variations of 'dumbest.'"

April giggles - softly, but it's there. I hadn't heard her laugh before now. "Interloper?" she asks.

"Yeah, I don't belong," Cristina says, off-handedly. "Owen plucked me out of obscurity. I was a bartender. He apparently couldn't stay away." She rolls her eyes. "So, how'd you two lovebirds come to be?"

I turn my head towards April, then cup her cheek in one hand. "It was simple, really," I say. "I took one look at her and knew right then… God is a woman."

April rolls her eyes just as dramatically as Cristina had, and everyone else groans and shakes their heads. "Come on," Alex mumbles.

"What?" I say. "I can't help that I'm in love. You've all been on me to settle down for forever now. So, shouldn't you be happy for me?"

"It's like she appeared out of nowhere," Meredith says, eyes glinting. "Did you pick out a mail-order bride or something, Jackson?"

April's body tenses, but I rub her shoulder subtly to calm her down. She relaxes a bit, but not by much.

"Don't be crass," I say. "I've kept our relationship under the radar, and we're finally ready to go public. Right, babe?" I ask, turning to her again.

"Right, sweetheart," she says, and the term of endearment does anything but roll off her tongue. Instead, it tumbles into dead air and sticks there like a patch of glue. All of us catch it, but no one says anything.

Seizing the moment, I hold her chin in one hand and draw her face close to mine. I need to prove it to them - they need to believe me - and in order for that to happen, we have to seem somewhat natural. All of this has been very forced so far.

We kiss, and it's quick and chaste. When we pull apart, she meets my eyes fleetingly before darting hers away. I smile at my friends and tip my head towards April, but Jo scoffs and shakes her head.

"Kiss her like you mean it," she says. "What kind of husband are you, Avery? Seriously."

"That'd be inappropriate," I say. "She-"

"Why?" April cuts in. "I'm your wife, aren't I?"

I swivel to look at her, thoroughly surprised. With that comeback cracking out of thin air, I have no choice but to rise to the occasion. I turn to face her completely, wind my arms around her waist so I can grab two firm handfuls of her ass, then yank her closer with confidence. Her small body complies easily, melting against mine as she drapes her arms around my neck, and I open my mouth against hers just to see what she'll do.

She cooperates, leaning into me and touching my tongue with hers, sighing hot breath into my mouth and whimpering with satisfaction when I squeeze her ass harder. She pulls my head down and angles hers to one side, parting her lips further, and I'm about to get hard before the crowd has had enough.

"Alright, Jesus, we get it," Alex says. "Can we go fuckin' dance, or what?"

April and I break apart, then spend a moment just looking at each other. Her lips are red and puffy, kissed swollen, and the expression in her eyes is lit and untamed. I can't imagine mine look much different, since my heart won't slow down.

"Sure," I say, nodding towards the source of the heavy bass. "But let's get drinks first."

…

After I'm a few drinks in, I lose track of April and can't find it within myself to worry about her whereabouts. I'm sure she's fine, wherever she is, and convince myself of that every time she crosses my mind. I'd tried to get her a drink but she declined, though I said they made the best in the city here. Still, she spurned me. She lingered for a bit, but after I spent a good while in boisterous conversation with my friends, she disappeared.

When it's time to dance, though, I need a partner. Feeling a bit looser because of the alcohol, I try and seek out April by scanning the club, and luckily her hair is a dead giveaway. I make a beeline towards where she stands alone, and when she sees me coming her shoulders hunch up near her ears.

"I don't want to talk to you," she says, pivoting so her back faces me.

"I wanna dance with you," I say, resting a hand on her lower back. She doesn't respond, so I keep trying. "Listen to the music. It'll be fun."

She keeps her head low, still not saying a word, so I try harder.

"When's the last time you actually had fun?" I ask. "When's the last time you danced with somebody?"

Her eyes lift then, as does her chin. Her arms uncross, and her eyes find mine in the low light. She doesn't need to respond with words.

"That's what I thought," I say. "Follow me."

As soon as we reach the floor, a remix of a popular song comes on and a smile finds its way to her face. A real smile, too. It lights up her eyes and all of her teeth show, and I can't help but mirror the expression. It's contagious, especially when I'm buzzed. She jumps up and down with uninhibited joy, now much better at staying on her feet in those heels. She lets her hair get messy, and I find that I like seeing her this way - unwound a bit. Breathing freely.

When the song changes to something sexier and slower, she stops bouncing. Her eyes catch on mine and she starts to head off the dance floor, but I stop her with two hands around her waist.

"Wha…" she stammers.

"Let's dance," I say.

She's hesitant, but I don't think she wants to leave. She wants to stay, but she doesn't think it's her place. That much is easily discernible in her eyes alone. So, I do my best to make her feel like she belongs.

As the song gets hotter and heavier, I flip her around so her back presses against my chest, her ass against my crotch. She moves with the rhythm in a way I hadn't expected she would, and her hair comes tumbling out of its updo to wind in curls around her neck and shoulders.

I wrap my arms low on her waist, hands wide over the expanse of her belly, and I don't let any space come between our bodies. I gyrate my hips against hers and she pushes back with equal intensity, and it doesn't take long before I lose control and tuck my face into the side of her neck.

The thump of the bass is swimming in my veins at this point, and I'm completely lost in the way both the music and April feel. The curve of her ass is perfect, her neck smells amazing, and I bet if I opened my mouth, her skin would taste amazing, too. I close my eyes and let myself imagine it, but as my mind floats off, she jolts away from me. She pulls apart my hands on her stomach and takes clumsy steps forward, turning around with shock written all over her face.

It only takes me a moment to realize that I popped a boner, and she most likely felt it. I scared her off, and as I stand there deducing what happened, she bolts yet again.

"Fuck," I whisper to myself, leaving the dance floor too. It's about time we got out of here.

It takes me longer to find her this time, where she hovers by the bar. I collect myself and approach her in a nonthreatening way, but she still looks at me like I plan to pounce on her.

"Would you like to leave?" I ask.

She nods vigorously, and I nod towards the exit. We walk side-by-side, not touching, and she's even more tense than when we arrived. Her arms are crossed again, shoulders hunched, steps tiny and calculated. I don't bother looking her way, knowing she doesn't want that.

It's still a shock when the cameras go off, though, and the cool night air hits us. April shields her eyes with one hand and I lead the way by stepping in front of her. As soon as we're inside the car, I expect to hear a sigh of relief or something of the like from her, but she's silent the whole way home.

And it's only when we get there do I remember we're supposed to sleep in the same bed tonight.

"Look, you can have it," I say, shaking my head as we both head upstairs. Before that, there had still been no conversation between us. "I don't need to sleep with you. I can use a room nearby; it'll be fine. I would never ask…" I shake my head, knowing I can't finish that sentence. I've already asked plenty of her - too much. "Just take it."

"I can't do that," she says. "It's your bed. I can go back to the east wing, or whatever, and use the room from before."

"No," I say. "The east wing is for guests, and that's too obvious for Antonio. Just take the bed, please, April. We can talk about it further tomorrow."

For a moment, I expect her to continue arguing. But instead, she concedes. I leave her alone while she changes into pajamas, and only go in for my own after she's left the bathroom to lie down.

I don't mean to listen in on her phone conversation, but it's practically impossible when her teary voice cuts through the otherwise soundless house.

"...hate it here, mom. I miss home. I miss you guys. I don't want to be away from you anymore."

I lift my head and stare at my reflection, wondering if I'm a monster - her captor, the one who won't her leave. But then, I remember all the good my money is doing for her family. My mother said just this morning that the two little ones would be dead if not for us. April is being ungrateful, and I won't let her guilt me into feeling bad over a favor. That's below me.

…

In the morning, I'm woken up by Callie's voice as my door slams open.

"Wake up, Avery," she says. "And smell the failure."

I frown, squinting against the harsh light, and turn over. I see Callie standing at the foot of my bed with a magazine in her hand. But soon, she throws it down and I know exactly what she's talking about when I see the front cover.

 _ **BRAND NEW MRS. AVERY - ALLOWED OUT OF HER IVORY TOWER?**_

"Shit," I say, taking a good look at the paparazzi shot on the cover. It's me and April last night, exiting the club. We're both haggard, and she looks like she either just stopped crying or is about to at any second. We aren't touching, aren't smiling, and she seems afraid over anything.

"Yeah, shit. Shit is right," Callie says, picking up the magazine and shaking it. "You need to do better! These goddamn magazines are going crazy, saying you've imprisoned this innocent little woman against her will." She gives me a hard look. "If you don't want this to fall through, you need to actually _try_ with her."

"She won't let me!" I insist, knowing how petulant I sound. "Everything I do, she-"

Callie holds up a hand. "If these excuses are worth half a billion dollars, I'd love for you to continue," she says.

I shut my mouth.

"All I'm saying," I growl eventually. "Is that it's a two-way street."

"Then talk to her," Callie says, leaning forward to get closer to my face. "That's what she's here for."

That's not exactly the first thing on my to-do list, though I know it should be. After Callie leaves, I procrastinate for as long as possible before finding my way to the master bedroom where I figure April must still be sleeping.

She's awake when I peer inside the door, though, sitting cross-legged on the bed. She's freshly showered and smells good - and along with that, she's wearing pajamas from her new wardrobe. A matching pink and silky set.

I think I could get used to seeing her like this.

The look in her eyes is far from welcoming, though, when she notices my presence. I'm in no way tentative, but I take my time coming inside the room.

"Good morning," she says, icily.

"Good morning to you," I say. "I hope you slept well."

"I did, thank you," she says. "Did you?"

I nod, pausing while trying to figure out how to broach this subject. I come to the conclusion that there's no decent way about it - I just have to dive right in.

"The tabloids got a hold of our photos from last night," I say. "When we were leaving. They're going wild, accusing me of holding you hostage."

She quirks an eyebrow, and I know what she's thinking. She doesn't say it aloud, though.

"That can't happen, April," I say. "We have to do better. You have to let me treat you like my wife… you have to treat me like your husband. That was part of our agreement, you signed the contract. You aren't holding up your end of the deal."

With knitted-together eyebrows, she snarls, "You can't ignore me all night, then grope me when you get lonely!" she spits. "When you were sick of me, you brushed me off like you do to everyone else. Then, when you needed a warm body, you found me again. And you practically came all over my dress."

My eyes widen. That was the last thing I expected her to say. "I did not," I say.

"I felt you," she retorts, glowering. "I know what that is. I'm not stupid."

"I never said you were," I point out, then sigh. "Look, I am sorry for how last night transpired. You're right, I should've treated you better. And I will. But you can't disappear whenever you decide you don't want to play the role anymore. You made me look like an idiot on multiple occasions."

She chews her bottom lip and looks off to the side. "Fine," she says. "I won't. If you won't do what you did."

"I'll be better," I say.

"We can both be better," she adds.

I sigh and look at the floor. This might be the first time in my life where I don't have complete control over a situation. She has a pull over me I can't explain, and one I have no say in.

As if to demonstrate it, she says, "We should start by getting to know each other."


	3. Chapter 3

**APRIL**

Jackson looks at me like I've suggested he hand over his entire fortune, house included.

"Getting to know each other?" he asks, aghast.

"Yeah," I say, tucking a piece of wet hair behind my ear. "Is that crazy, or something? Why are you looking at me that way?"

"I'm not looking at you in any sort of way," he says, frowning. It's a common expression of his, that frown. I've already come to memorize the lines on his face when it appears. He should stop, or they might stick.

"If we act like strangers, the gig is up," I say. "And according to you, your mother, and Calliope, that's the last thing that should happen."

He sighs, frustrated. "You still don't understand how important this is, do you?" he says.

"Don't talk down to me," I say. "I won't be spoken to like that. I'm not your underling."

He recoils slightly. I wouldn't have noticed had my eyes not been burning into him. When he uses that tone, my skin heats up and I'm sure I turn red, but I don't care. I've said it before; I'm doing him a favor as much as he's doing one for me. I'm not his employee, though he treats me as if I'm even lesser.

"I'm your equal," I say. "That's not something I should have to tell you."

His eyes change shape as he looks at me, studies me for what I'm worth. He shakes his head just slightly, seemingly baffled, and I stand my ground.

"You exhaust me," he says.

"I could say the same about you," I say. "I'm trying to extend the olive branch, and you're determined to snap it. Why is that? Is there suddenly something wrong with being kind? Is that beneath you, too?"

"Enough," he says, and though he doesn't raise it, his voice is intimidating enough to make me press my lips together and go silent. "You have your mind set on seeing me a certain way, don't you?"

"You've made it very clear that you only wear one mask," I counter back.

"And what would that be?" he asks, tone tilting as if he's teasing me.

"The mask of an egocentric, selfish prick," I spit.

"Oh," he says, eyebrows up. "Is that what you think of me?"

I nod.

"Well, do you know what I think of you?" he says, and proceeds without my prompting. "I think you're a stubborn, close-minded, traditional girl who's never seen the world outside her four walls. And it shows."

"As if I've been given the chance to," I say.

"I'm giving you the chance now!" he says, a bit louder now. "And you're squandering it to fight with me. What good is this doing either of us? Are you having a good time?"

"No," I state.

"Well, neither am I," he says. "But we might as well get used to it. I've heard marriage isn't always about good times."

I scoff. "Like this is any real sort of marriage."

"You're hell-bent on making it not so," he says. "Aren't you?"

"So are you," I retort. "Because anything else would make you feel something."

"I feel nothing for you," he says, squinting like I've said something totally unbelievable.

"The feeling is mutual," I say, cheeks burning. "But that doesn't make what I said any less true. We do need to get to know each other, or else the media is going to see right through us. Sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but you're not a good actor, Mr. Avery."

"It's Jackson," he says. "Call me Jackson."

"What a luxury," I say, crossing my arms.

He bristles, jaw set so firmly his cheeks bulge. I know I'm upsetting him, but I'm getting a sort of rise out of it. It's refreshing to see some emotion provoked in him; it's better than the usual robotic, glossy facade. Plus, it takes a weight off to finally say those things that have been boiling inside me for days.

"Fine," he says. "So, we'll get to know each other. All I know about you is that you're dirt poor-"

"Not anymore," I say, holding up my left hand where diamonds sparkle on my ring finger.

"Thanks to me," he notes. "You lived on the South Side, and you're a pitbull in an argument."

"Married couples fight," I point out.

He concedes and says, "True."

With the air significantly cooled between us over an unspoken agreement to end the useless spat, I start with a question. "What's something about you that no one else knows?" I ask.

Something flashes across his face, something like a secret. I'm well-versed in the world of keeping those, so I know what they look like on someone. He's hiding something, and he didn't let it show for long. It's tucked away again, back in the recesses of his mind where I'm sure it usually stays. I can't imagine how many secrets must come with a life like his.

"I played the violin when I was nine years old," he says. "I hated it. I stomped on the instrument one day, and told my nanny it broke so I wouldn't have to go to my lessons."

"Interesting," I say. "But not enough."

"What are you talking about?" he sputters, frustrated that he wasn't up to my standards. I'm sure he's not used to that. "I told you something no one else knows; that was the parameters. No one knows that but me. And now, you."

"It's a good story, but it's not deep enough," I repeat. "I want something that you never, ever have even thought about telling someone else."

"So, why would I tell you?" he refutes.

"Because," I say, looking him dead in the eyes. "I'm your wife."

That silences him immediately. He physically pulls back, stunned and maybe even vulnerable. He doesn't argue any further. Instead, he takes a moment and retreats inside his head, hopefully digging up a sheltered memory to share.

"Um…" he says, clearing his throat.

I'm acutely aware that his guard is at least a little down; even his voice sounds different, and he won't look at me. I feel bad even trying to make eye contact, so I stop. I stare down at the comforter and wait for him to speak.

He laughs, but it's humorless. It creates a pain in my chest, a physical pain that I press my hand against to try and massage it out. Now, I definitely can't look at him.

"Okay. You want deep? Sure. I thought my nanny was my mom for the first two years of my life."

I blink hard, eyebrows knitted together. I heard his words, but I can barely put them together. I can't wrap my mind around anything but a close family relationship; I've never lived anything different.

I look up and meet his eyes very briefly before flitting away again. "What do you mean?" I ask, so I can understand.

He rolls his eyes and cracks his knuckles. I don't tell him to stop. "It's not a huge deal, I was just a kid. Kids think stupid shit. And because she was around so much, I thought she was my mom. It's not really all that far-fetched."

I take a wavering breath. "But she was around so much because… your mom wasn't."

"Has anyone ever told you that you should be a detective?" he asks, laced with sarcasm.

"Don't do that," I say, frowning deeply.

"Do what?"

"Push me away like that," I say. "I'm trying to get to know you, and you're intent on keeping up that stupid facade." I pause for a moment, and we challenge each other with our eyes. "How many years did-"

"So, how about you?" he asks, cutting me off entirely. "What's something that you've never told anyone?"

I should've known the question would volley back, but I wasn't sure we'd make it this far. I assumed he'd storm out of the room in a toddler-esque tantrum once I asked him to give more than the bare minimum, so I never expected to have to answer the question myself.

Though my life is simple compared to his, I do have secrets. Plenty of them. There's only one I won't tell him - or anyone. Something not a single person outside my immediate family knows, not even the one I should have told.

"I'm an open book," I say, straightening my shoulders.

"Liar," he says, shaking his head. "No. You made me go deep, so you're going there, too. No questions asked."

I know I won't get out of this without telling him something, but suddenly my mind is blank. Maybe I am the bland, uninteresting person he assumes I am. My confidence is shaken as that thought crosses my mind, and I feel small like I did the first time I walked through these mansion doors.

Thinking that makes me remember the first night here, just days ago. I remember sleeping alone, and how much I'd hated it. Then, I realize what I should tell him.

"I'm scared of sleeping alone," I say, laying it out bare-faced and open.

"What?" he says, raising his upper lip.

I shrug. "I don't like sleeping alone."

"What, you sleep with your boyfriend back home?" he spits.

"No," I say, keeping my voice the opposite of his - cool and calm. "The first night here was so bad because I'm not used to being in a bed by myself. Not with a boyfriend, or any boy. With my two little sisters, Kimmie and Alice."

"Aren't you a little old to be sharing a bed with your siblings?" he asks, forehead wrinkling.

"Yes," I say. "And they are, too. But there wasn't another option. Libby, my oldest sister, was already on the couch. And Mom needed her own space. So, me and the two little ones shared a room and a bed. I got so used to it; ever since they were born, I haven't known anything else."

It strikes me how true that is. When Kimmie was born, I was thirteen and already sharing that room with Libby. For a while, Kimmie slept in a crib in Mom's room until she got too big and could climb out of it, then it was just assumed that she and I would share. There was no questioning it, since there wasn't room anywhere else. And when Alice came along, the same thing happened. I never complained, because it didn't bother me. I liked having them close at night and knowing they were there. My two biggest sources of happiness, right by my side. Sleeping alone, in contrast, is daunting and somewhat terrifying.

"How many rooms did that house have?" he asks.

"Two," I say, holding up my fingers. "Just two."

"Jesus Christ," he says. "How did you guys have any room to breathe? Any room to do anything, to get away from each other?"

"I never wanted to get away from them," I say, trying to make him understand. "I love them."

"Still, at night? What if you wanted to bring a guy home?"

"It wasn't..." I trail off, diminutive. "My life wasn't like that."

"So…" he says, leaning forward a bit. "That's your thing? You're scared of sleeping alone." I nod, hearing how silly it sounds coming from his mouth. "Well, you don't have to, you know," he says. "I'll sleep in here. It'd probably help our situation, anyway." He laughs a bit at what he's about to say. "And I won't try anything, unless you ask. Which you might, eventually."

My face flames and I press my palms to my cheeks in efforts to hide my blush. My eyes dart around the room while he smirks, so pleased with himself, and I shake my head. "I won't," I say.

"But would you like it if I slept in here with you?" he asks.

The last few nights I've been alone, I've been plagued with nightmares. The bed is too big and empty, and I toss and turn until the sun comes up and I can't bear to lie there anymore. I can imagine that having someone next to me - their presence alone - would only help.

"Yes," I answer.

"Okay, then," he says. "I will. And I won't hold you to what you said, about not wanting me to touch you."

I let a loud breath from my nose. "You are so inappropriate," I say, flicking hair out of my face.

"Wait," he says, tipping his head to get a good look at my face. "Are you a virgin? Is that what this whole act is about?"

My stomach churns and boils, and a bad taste appears in my throat. Sex isn't an easy subject for me, for reasons I don't plan on getting into with him. I already told him one secret, and today isn't the day for more.

"No," I say, folding my hands and sitting up straight. "No, I'm not."

"April, you're not a good liar," he says, lightly.

"I'm not lying," I insist, frowning to put across the seriousness of my point.

"Okay," he says. "Sure."

I don't let him say anything else. I want this subject changed as quickly as possible, so I start talking before he carries on any further. "So, what do you like to do for fun?" I ask.

"What is this, the first day of school?" he asks, scoffing. "I don't do 'fun' anyway. That's a kid's word."

I start laughing; I can't help it.

"What?" he snaps. "What's so funny?"

"You just basically said that you're above having fun," I say. "Do you hear yourself? Ever?"

He shoots me a look. "I don't like being made fun of," he says.

"Yeah, 'cause you don't like fun," I say. "What do you do in your spare time? Stare at yourself in the mirror?"

His head twitches, and I come to realize that might be a tell of his. I think that comment really bothered him, and I feel guilty as soon as I've said it.

"I'm sorry," I say, growing meek.

"What do _you_ do for fun?" he asks. "If you're the expert."

"I meant something more like a hobby," I say. "Do you have a hobby?"

A strange expression crosses his eyes again, and I take note of it. There's something he's not telling me, but it's definitely on his mind. I don't pry, though. It's not the time. I'm not sure if it will ever be the time.

"I go to clubs," he says. "I show up at parties."

As superior as he would like to sound, I can't help but feel sorry for him. It doesn't sound like he's known fun a day in his life, and that's no way to live. My family might be poor, but we know how to have a good time - especially with each other.

"I want to take you somewhere," I say, finding myself getting excited. "Somewhere I used to go in my free time."

He looks at me warily, wondering if he can trust what I'm saying.

"I promise, it's fun," I say, then rest my fingers on his wrist. He stares at my hand like he's never felt human touch before, but I don't move. "You might like it, if you try."

…

Seeing Jackson Avery standing at the end of a dock wearing loafers, pressed pants and a button-up shirt is enough to make me giggle, but I keep my composure. I don't want to make him feel silly. That's not why I brought him here.

I brought him here to loosen up. Lord knows, he needs it.

"You can sit," I say, getting comfortable with both legs hanging over the side.

Before we left, I packed a picnic basket with a simple lunch inside. And on the way here, I had the driver stop at a bait and tackle shop nearby so we could buy two fishing poles and bait.

"I'm fine up here," he says, crossing his arms.

I smirk to myself, squinting at the sunlight reflecting off the water. "Bet you didn't know we had places like this in Chicago," I say.

"Hmm."

"You just have to know where to look," I say, then pull off my shoes and scoot forward so my toes touch the water.

"April, that water is filthy," he says.

"God made dirt, so dirt don't hurt," I say. "That's what my mom used to tell us."

He grimaces. I have no idea what's running through his mind, but I'm not bothered. I have a feeling he'll loosen up in time. This spot has a way of doing that to people, and I won't rush him.

"My baby sister, Alice, caught her first fish here at the beginning of spring," I say, opening the bait box to pull out a colorful, plastic lure.

"Aren't those supposed to be live worms?" Jackson asks.

"I can't," I say.

"What, you don't like touching them?" he asks.

"I don't like killing them," I say, seriously. "I won't do it. Why kill an innocent creature when plastic works just as well, and it's reusable?" I hold it up for him to see. "Look!"

He glances at it, but only for a moment. "What did you say about your sister and a fish?" he says.

"Oh," I say, casting my line. "She caught her first one… maybe a month ago? Two?" I laugh, remembering the day.

It's such a good memory - it was perfect weather. The right amount of breeze, balmy air, and pleasant sunshine. All my sisters came out that day - Libby and I didn't have to work and we wanted to take the girls someplace special. We spent all day laughing and eating jelly sandwiches; I can still taste the sweetness of the raspberry jam on the back of my tongue.

"I swear, it was almost bigger than her!" I smile widely. "Given, she's very tiny. Oh!"

I exclaim as something tugs on my line, and I keep my balance on the dock as I reel it in. I keep the oscillations slow and even, making sure not to tug too hard - and before long, a flopping fish comes out of the water attached to my hook.

"I got one!" I say.

"Whoa," Jackson says, taking a step back. "What _is_ that?"

"A fish, I don't know," I say, setting the pole down as I grab hold of the fish. "He's kinda cute, though, right?"

"Um…"

"He kinda looks like you when you frown," I say, imitating the downward slope of his lips.

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't argue or get offended. "What happens now?" he asks. "Are we supposed to bring that thing home?"

"No," I say, unhooking him with ease. "You just… toss them back."

And with those words, I gently let the fish go back into the water and watch him swim off. Jackson does, too.

"What's the point?" he asks, thoroughly confused.

"Fun, Jackson," I say, tilting my head towards him and squinting against the sun. "Fun."

…

"Put your feet in. It's really nice."

"I'm already sitting with you. That should be enough."

I set my fishing pole in a hole so it stays upright and turn to face him. "It's not," I say. "You have to get the whole experience."

"This is plenty experience in itself," he says. "The fresh air, the wildlife. The… you."

"The 'me' wants your shoes off," I say, scooting closer. "Come on. Let loose."

"I don't let loose."

"Being married to me," I say. "You - do - now."

Between each word, I yank both of his shoes off as his legs are extended in front of his body. "Hey!" he exclaims, but does nothing to stop me.

I take off his socks next, which are entirely too fancy for pieces of cloth that just cover feet. I toss them to the side without any care and make quick work of rolling up his pant legs, exposing his masculine and hairy shins.

"I look like an idiot," he says.

"Good thing no one's looking," I say. "No one but me."

"Christ," he says, then rolls his eyes harder than he has yet.

"If you keep doing that, they're going to roll back in your head," I say.

"How come you have a comment for everything?" he grumbles. "Everything I say, you have a quippy retort."

"How come you don't?" I counter, then snort. "It's called making the best of a situation. You should try it sometime. My dad taught me that."

"Yeah, well maybe that's my problem," he says, finally lowering his feet into the water. I don't make a big deal out of it; instead, I just watch him. He seems to enjoy the way it feels lapping around his ankles.

"What?" I say.

"Nothing," he murmurs.

I know it's not nothing, though. I know his dad is dead, that's become pretty obvious since he's not around and hasn't yet been spoken about.

"My dad's gone, too," I say, not waiting long before saying it.

He closes his eyes for a moment and I watch the tension creep back into his shoulders. "I don't talk about my father," he says, so quiet I almost miss it.

"What about your grandpa?" I ask, trying again.

He shrugs. "He was around, but he wasn't crazy about me. I didn't know him past the surface."

"He liked you enough to leave you a fortune," I point out.

"Half of it, on a condition," he says, barely moving his lips. It's clear he's not comfortable talking about this either, but that's okay. It's good to get out of the comfort zone.

"Half?" I say, curious. I don't know anything about him only getting half. "What do you mean, half?"

"It doesn't matter," he says. "Please, leave it alone."

He uses a tone that's firm and unwavering, and it causes my train of thought to stop in its tracks and not push any further. We were starting to have a good time, and I don't want to ruin it.

"Loss is hard," I say. "Ever since my dad died, my family hasn't really been the same."

He scoffs. "Yeah, did The Brady Bunch turn into The Addams Family overnight?"

"Don't be mean," I say. "You don't know what it was like. He made most of our money, and he made sure we ate. And after he passed, all of that was gone. That's why… you know, we had so many money struggles. My mom's still in a huge amount of debt from the medical bills when she had Alice. He had just passed, which meant we had no health insurance. Everything fell apart when he died. So, I'm just saying, I know how it feels to have your life torn apart."

He's quiet for a moment, pondering what I've said. I don't know if I've ever spoken about it in such plain terms before, but it feels good. It feels like a weight lifted from my shoulders. Even if it did fall on deaf ears.

But I don't think it did.

"I'm sorry," he says, and the words sit like two gemstones in my chest, shining and precious. I want nothing more than to wrap my fingers around them and squeeze tight, releasing the feeling to the rest of my body. "My father died when I was fourteen. I do know what you mean. Nothing has been the same since."

I let the words ruminate just like he allowed mine to do. The only sound between us is that of the waves splashing against the wood of the dock, rhythmic and soothing.

"I'm sorry, too," I say, then close the space between us and clasp his fingers inside mine.

Not only does he let me, but he opens his palm and squeezes my hand in return. I turn to look at him, but he's staring out at the pond - pants rolled up, feet in the water - so I turn and look, too.

"April," he says, disturbing the silence. "Would you like to go see your family?"

…

I can't hold still during the car ride. I don't know where we're headed - they've already moved into a new house, and it's apparently in Lincoln Park. That's a neighborhood where my mom has always wanted to live, for as long as I can remember.

"Breathe," Jackson says, though he's been reserved and a bit checked out since offering this.

"I'm sorry," I say, both knees still bouncing. "I'm just so excited."

When we pull up to the curb, I burst out of the car without waiting for him and storm the front path, knowing which walkup is theirs because of the number Jackson told me. I take the stairs two at a time and nearly trip over my feet, but I make it to the door eventually and ring the bell incessantly, over and over.

"Coming!" Libby shouts, and huge emotions flood through me just hearing her voice.

When she opens the door, her entire face lights up and she lets out a sound mixed between a sob and a laugh. "My baby!" she cries, and wraps me up in a huge hug. So huge, my feet lift off the ground and she swings me around in a circle.

"I'm here," I say, once she puts me down.

She doesn't let me go, though - she cups my face and stares, then holds me at arm's length. "Look at you," she says. "You're… you're a lady. Your hair, your clothes… April, you…" She starts to cry again, and buries her face in my neck to try and quell her tears.

"I missed you so much," I say, rubbing her back heartily.

"Who's here?" a little voice calls from the top of the stairs.

"You have stairs," I say, gasping as I look at them.

"Sissy?!"

Little footsteps come clambering down those magnificent stairs, and I catch sight of Kimmie and Alice racing to get to me. They look cleaner than they have in years - with fresh haircuts, wearing new clothes. I start to cry because they look so different, so big, in the handful of days I haven't been with them.

"Sissy!" they both scream, and hurl themselves into my arms.

I fall backwards onto the floor and they come with me, arms wrapped around my middle, dropping wet kisses all over my face while squeezing me as tight as they can.

"I thought you were never, ever coming back, ever!" Kimmie says, eyes wide as saucers.

"I told you," Alice says, thumb in her mouth. I wouldn't dream of pulling it out.

"I missed you guys so much," I say, hugging them and pressing a hand to the backs of both of their heads. "I love you. I love you so, so, so much. Look at this place! Look at all of you! You look so darn fancy."

"I gotted new clothes!" Alice announces. "No rips! No rips for you to sew, sissy, that okay?"

I tear up again and kiss her chubby cheeks. "It's okay, baby," I say, voice waterlogged. "It's more than okay. You guys needed new clothes so bad."

"New everything!" Kimmie says, throwing her arms into the air. "Also, Mama's at work."

"She should be home soon, though," Libby says. "Why don't you… and him… come inside and wait for her?"

At the mention of Jackson, I look over my shoulder to see that he's still lingering by the door. With our exuberant reunifications, I hadn't given him much of another option, but he still looks awkward and stiff.

"Jackson," I say, nodding him over.

He gives a little shake of his head and waves one hand subtly, signaling that he's fine where he is. But I won't stand for it.

"Jackson," I say again, beckoning him with one arm. "Please. They're my family."

It takes a moment, but he gives in slowly. He walks with calculated steps over to where my sisters and I are standing, and smiles tersely.

"Guys, this is my husband," I say, trying to get used to the word. "Jackson."

All three gingers blink at him with wide, green eyes. He looks between all of them, clearly unsure of what to do, and nods his head politely.

"Jackson," I say. "This is Alice, the baby. Kimmie, and Libby, my older sister."

"Nice to meet all of you," he says, and extends a hand for Libby before giving her a firm handshake.

"Me, too!" Alice says, and stands up on her tiptoes while reaching a hand out for Jackson, fingers spread wide.

"Oh," he says, and shakes her hand while looking her warmly in the eyes. "Nice to meet you as well."

"And me!" Kimmie chimes in, mimicking what Alice had just done.

"And you," Jackson echoes, and if I'm not surprised, a ghost of a smile finds its way to his lips.

"Come inside!" Alice says, and surprises us all when she takes Jackson by the hand and tugs him into the house. "It's _so_ big. You can't even believed it. Look! Look at the big lights!"

"Wow," Jackson says, trailing behind her.

My heart splinters and oozes feeling into my chest as I watch them. Then, subtly, Kimmie's grip slips out of mine and she goes to take Jackson's other hand.

"Look at how big our fridge is! And we even get a mico-wave!"

I follow them into the kitchen and see that they're right; this is bigger than anything we ever knew. It's not as big as the kitchen where I live, but I don't plan on telling them about that.

"Also, sissy, you're fancy," Kimmie says, turning around. "Does being married mean you dress fancy?"

I look down at my outfit, which was the most casual thing I could find that wasn't loungewear. It's a fitted, yellow patterned dress with a red belt, and I can see how it would count as fancy for her.

"I guess so," I say, shrugging and playing along with her.

"And guess _what_?" Alice practically shrieks. "We got a TV! We got a real life TV!"

"For our very own house!" Kimmie sings. "Sissy! In our house! I bet you don't even have one in your house."

"You're right," I say, smiling. "I don't."

"Hey," Alice says, tugging on Jackson's hand. "Get my sissy a TV, please."

He smiles a little awkwardly, but it's cute anyway. "Will do," he says.

Libby pours us all glasses of water from a Brita filter, which she has to explain in great detail to me. I hadn't even known something like that existed. We sit at the counter and nurse the glasses, Jackson staying completely quiet, until we hear the front door come open.

"Mommy!" both little girls shout. "Mommy, sissy's here! Sissy's here with her boyfriend man!"

There's a thump as whatever Mom was carrying falls to the floor, then the sound of her footsteps as she rushes to meet me. At first, shock is painted all over her face, then it crumples into tears of joy.

"My baby," she sobs, and pulls me into her arms even tighter than Libby had.

I start crying too, returning the hug just as tightly. I let her hold me for as long as she wants, because I need it so badly, and finally open my eyes after a few long beats have passed.

Through my tears, I blink into Jackson's face standing a good distance away. If I didn't know better, I'd think that he was doing a horrible job at trying to conceal an impeccable amount of sadness.


	4. Chapter 4

**JACKSON**

It's not often I feel uncomfortable.

Commonly, I take control of a room and what happens inside it revolves around my presence. Conversely, though, that is far from the case as I stand inside the Kepner house with the Kepner family. It's clear April is their sun, and they revolve around her.

I never knew such a small, ordinary person could have such an impact on those around her. It's impossible to ignore that she does. She breathes life into these people, there's no denying it, and it's strange to watch. I've never seen a family that openly loves each other so much.

I know my mother loves me, of course. But it's a different kind of love than what I'm seeing right now. It's a love that doesn't involve physical touch or affection, it's a cool love from afar. April's family doesn't seem to know a single thing about personal space, nor does it seem like they want to learn. The hugs are never-ending, they rest with arms looped over shoulders, and play with each other's hair. It's like if they stop touching each other, they'll die.

My dad used to hug me, but I can't remember what they felt like. I only have the memories because of the photos; photos that I haven't let myself wallow in for many years. It doesn't matter if he hugged me. It's not like a hug has the power to change a life. If it did, mine would look very different.

As I watch them, they seem to forget I'm in the room because they're so caught up in one another. I relish the feeling, blending into the background, because I don't want to be noticed. April should soak in the time here because I don't know how soon we'll come back, and there's no reason for me to interrupt. I wouldn't know how to interact, anyway. This isn't my place, it's hers. I shouldn't have even come in. It was to save face, that's all. It was a mistake.

"Don't think that I forgot about you," I hear, then look to see April's mom headed my way.

My body tenses immediately, unsure of what to expect. She's wearing a big smile with her hair tucked behind her ears just like April wears hers, arms extended wide.

"I need to hug you," she says. "I need to thank you."

I open my mouth to refute her, to say that physical affirmations aren't necessary, but she gets to me before I can say a word. She wraps her arms around me tighter than I imagined she could - she's wiry like her daughters - and rocks from side to side as she squeezes me.

"You don't know how much you've done for our family," she says, voice squished against my chest. "I can't thank you enough. Truly, honey. Truly. Thank you so much."

If possible, I tense up even further and crane my neck away while trying not to seem rude. I catch April's eye over her mother's head and she smiles at me - big and wide, like I haven't seen her smile yet. And after that smile, she pulls her lips over her teeth and transforms it into a smirk, shaking her head with glinting eyes.

"You're welcome, Mrs. Kepner," I say, slowly inching my way out of the hug.

"Oh, please," she says. "At this point, call me Karen. I am your mother-in-law, after all!"

I resist the urge to balk at the moniker, having not realized it yet. It's true, though, legally I am in her son-in-law. It's a strange thought, that of belonging to another family when I barely belong to my own.

"If you're his mama, too, then he's my brother!" one of the little ones - the bigger of the two - announces. She hops down from the chair she'd been sitting in and runs over, green eyes glistening. "I never had a brother!" she says.

"Only sisters," the littlest one says. "All sisters. And now we get a brother! Mama! Do we get to keep him or is he just for looking?"

April snorts and I clear my throat uncomfortably. I place my hand in a fist over my mouth and clear my throat again, wondering what should come next.

"We get to keep him for always, baby," April says, cutting in before picking her sister up. The little one balances on her hip perfectly, and they fit together like two puzzle pieces. "What do you think about that?"

The two of them walk closer, and April never tears her eyes off mine. She's smiling, on her lips and entire face, as she comes to stand across from me.

"Alice," she says, speaking to her sister while looking at me. "Me and Jackson are married. Which means… yes. He's your new brother."

…

Against my subtle hints otherwise, we end up eating dinner with the Kepners. Karen insists on cooking and busies herself in the kitchen and, much to my surprise, all of her daughters help.

I was never asked to help in the kitchen, even when I was small and had the inclination to do so. Growing up, we always had a private chef. I've never even seen where my food is prepared, I just know that it appears in front of me and that's what matters.

Things here are run much differently, so it seems.

"Mama," Alice says, looking back at me as I linger near the table. "Why doesn't he help, too?"

Everyone turns to look then, identical eyes searing into me as I try not to seem as uncomfortable. I flash a tight-lipped smile, cheeks twitching, and April moves first.

"He's not used to all us girls," she says, walking over. She stands in front of me and rubs her hands up and down my arms, which sends a strange, comforting feeling to my gut. She grips my biceps with her dainty hands and blinks into my eyes, smiling with her own, squeezing me lightly. "Right, babe?"

"Right," I answer, filling in what she's laid out.

"Maybe you should set the table," she says, "Start you off with something easy."

"Um, sure," I say, a bit disjointedly.

"Mama," April says. "Where are the plates?"

"Right here," Karen says, setting a big stack on the island along with handfuls of silverware. "But really, Jackson, you don't have to lift a finger. You're the g-"

"He wants to help," April cuts in, still grinning.

I shoot her a sidelong glance, and she gives me one right back.

"Why don't you help him, honey," Karen continues, nodding her daughter along.

"He's got it," April says, turning back to her sisters. "I was in the middle of peeling potatoes. He has it under control."

"Sure," I say, trying to remain cordial.

I take my time setting the table, making sure there are enough placements, silverware, glasses and napkins for everyone. Once I feel like I've done a decent job, I stand back to observe my work just as Kimmie comes padding over.

"Why're there so many forks and spoons and stuff?" she asks. "There's like, eleven-teen of each!" She looks at me with a silly grin on her face. "You're silly, Jackson."

"Silly?" I echo, eyebrows furrowing. "What's silly about it?"

"Goofy!" Alice pipes up from a few feet away. "Goofy goober!"

I look to April for a bit of reprieve, a bit of explanation, and she laughs in good humor. "Leave him alone, you guys," she says. "Fancy people use a lot of different silverware when they eat."

"We're fancy now!" Alice insists, pointing at her new clothes.

"Yeah, so do we get to use a different fork for every single bite?" Kimmie asks.

"No, it's not like that," April says, smiling. "We don't need to worry about it. But it was very thoughtful of Jackson."

I give a terse nod, then shove my hands into my pockets. "Uh, excuse me," I say. "I'm going to go wash up."

"I'll show you where!" Alice says, bounding forward so her hair bounces with her. She turns back to April and says solemnly, "I'll show him, sissy."

April gives her a mock salute and says, "Go ahead."

"This way," Alice says, and takes my hand just like she had before.

Her grip is warm and soft, tinier than I imagined a human hand could be. She pulls me out of the dining room area and into the hall, not letting go of my hand for a single step.

"You're brand new in our family," she says, looking over her shoulder to meet my eyes. "I never had a new person in our family 'cause I'm the baby. And I'm the newest. But now, you're the newest!"

I'm not sure what to say, so I just smile with my lips closed.

"A boy in our family is crazy," she says. "We never had that before. You're the first time. Except for my daddy, but…"

She turns back around, unable to look at me anymore. Her tone of voice has changed from light and peppy to somber in the blink of an eye, and I have no idea how to handle a sad child. What if she starts crying and won't stop? What am I supposed to do then?

"I never knowed him," she adds after a short period of silence.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I say.

"Yeah."

I bite the inside of my cheek and continue to follow her, knowing that I should say something. But what is there to say to a five-year-old that I barely know? I roll my eyes for overthinking it so much. She's a child.

"Well, if it helps, my dad is gone, too," I say, softly, finally filling in the silence.

She stops in her tracks and turns completely around, eyes wide and round. "Really?" she says. "He died?"

I nod. "Yeah," I say. "I don't like to talk about it."

"'Cause it makes you sad?"

I nod again. "Yeah. Stuff like that… you know, it's hard to talk about."

"I get sad, too," she says, trying to sound encouraging. "It's okay if you wanna cry. Because crying can even be good sometimes." She's quiet for a moment before asking, "You miss your daddy lots?"

"Um…" I say, then blink hard. I realize she still has my hand. "Yeah. Yeah, actually."

"He misses you, too," she says. "That's what Sissy says about my daddy."

Then, in an instant, she lets go of my hand and wraps her arms around my legs - all she can reach. She hugs me tight, with earnest, and doesn't let go.

But she looks up soon enough. "I gotta tell you a secret," she says.

"Okay…"

She lets go of my legs and waves me closer, and I reluctantly kneel so she can cup her hands around my ears. Her voice is raspy and spitty, but I try not to let it bother me.

"My sissy has magic in her," she says. "And whenever you're sad, she makes it go away. So, if you ask her, she can give it to you."

She pulls away, and I stand to my full height, still looking at the little girl, very unsure of how to respond.

"Oh, really," I say.

She nods vigorously. "But don't tell," she says. "It's secret."

"Alright."

"Jackson! Alice! Dinner!" Karen calls.

The little girl's face lights up and she scampers off like we hadn't just shared a strangely heartwarming moment. I stay where I am, a little shell-shocked by the whole thing, then find the bathroom on my own.

…

"So, you have to tell us the story of how you met," Libby says, about halfway through dinner.

I've never choked before - literally or figuratively - but I nearly do when I hear those words escape her mouth. I try to keep a level head, chewing slowly to buy time, wondering how in the world I'm supposed to answer - when April does it for me.

"It's pretty cute, actually," she says. "You know, Mom works for his mom. And one day, I went with her to help out because she had a really long day. I went off on my own, you know, like I do, and I was cleaning his bedroom." She looks at me, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. "Total slob, you should know. Clothes everywhere, drawers open, underwear on the floor…"

The little ones giggle at that. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the blatant fib. I'm tidier than she is.

"So, I'm just minding my own business, cleaning up after him. And I'm so lost in my own world that I don't her him come into the room until he screamed - I scared him, too! I turned around and saw him with a towel around his waist, he'd just come from the shower, totally freaked out. We had a sort of moment where we just looked into each other's eyes, and…"

She turns to look at me, eyelashes blinking slow. For a moment, one singular, small moment, I let myself get lost in the deep green of her eyes. But then I realize we're spending too long just staring at each other, so I direct my attention back to my plate.

"The rest is history," she says. "I had to keep it a secret because he's such a big name."

She wraps both arms around one of mine and pulls me close, resting her chin on my shoulder. She smiles, and it doesn't seem like she's acting at all. I don't know how to take this, nor how to decipher whatever is going on inside my head. I'm feeling a thousand things at once - but it's probably just dinner not sitting right with me. I haven't eaten anything not made by my personal chef in years.

"One look at him, and I was a goner," she says, using one hand to caress my cheek.

"I could say the same," I murmur, trying to keep up the act as well as she is. It's strange, though, knowing her mother is aware of the full story - meaning she's also aware that what we're doing is a giant farce. It makes me feel ridiculous to be acting like this in front of her.

April closes her eyes, and like clockwork, I lean in to kiss her. Our lips meet for just a moment - we keep it chaste for her family - and when we pull away my heart is beating like there's no tomorrow. I'm almost afraid that everyone can hear it straight through my chest.

"That's beautiful," Libby says, sighing. If I'm not mistaken, there are even tears in her eyes. "Really beautiful, you guys. April, you're so lucky."

She smiles, bright and shiny. "I know," she says, then gives me a kiss on the cheek.

"But I'm luckier," I say, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

"No more yucky kissing!" Kimmie shouts. "Can all the ooey-gooey stuff stop now?"

April busts up laughing, and even I crack a smile. "Sure," April says, but keeps a hand on my wrist. "But one day, little miss… you'll know what it feels like."

"Not me!" Alice chimes in, one finger in the air. "No way, Jose!"

Everyone starts laughing again, and this time I can't help but join. The feeling is foreign to me, laughing genuinely, so I keep it quiet. I don't know what's acceptable and what's not. But for the first time in a long time, even though I barely know these people, I feel somewhere close to content.

…

For most of the ride home, April and I don't exchange conversation. She's deep in thought and has a downtrodden aura about her - it was difficult for her to leave her family again. Even though it's not permanent and she knows that, leading her to the car felt like slowly ripping off a Band-Aid. It was like I was taking her against her will, though that's not the case. I wish she'd stop making me feel like that's the case.

I didn't hate spending time with her family tonight. It's not an environment I'm comfortable in, but it was nice to see people so happy to be with each other. I found myself feeling jealous that she got to grow up with all of that love surrounding her, until I remember the squalor that came with it. I push the envy down after that.

When we get near the house, I decide to say something.

"I had a nice time tonight," I murmur, catching her eye where she sits on the other side of the back seat.

She gives me a small smile. "I did, too," she replies. Then, "Thank you."

I shake my head a bit. "You don't have to thank me, April."

"I know," she says, the apples of her cheeks turning pink. "But you suggested we go, and you took us there. So, I want to thank you."

I don't respond accordingly, because it still doesn't sit right with me. I don't want our marriage to be full of favors, because that forces me to remember that she's doing one for me, as well. And _that_ forces me to remember that she doesn't know the whole story, and someday she'll have to learn. I don't know when that day will be, but it won't be anytime soon. I have a feeling it won't be pretty when she finds out the constituents for my receiving the other half of the inheritance.

The rest of the way home is short and quiet, and I help her out of the car once we arrive. She takes my hand willingly, and I see the tiredness in her eyes under the soft yellow outdoor lights. She'll want to go to sleep when we get inside, and I haven't forgotten that we're supposed to share a bed tonight. I wonder if that fact has slipped her mind, or if she's thinking about it as hard as I have been.

When we get inside, we're greeted immediately by Antonio.

"You've been gone nearly all day and evening," he says, trying not to sound frustrated. The creases on his forehead give him away, though. "The chef made dinner and it went to waste. You didn't notify me you'd be out late."

"Stop worrying, Antonio," I say, snaking an arm around the small of April's back, keeping her close. His eyes dart to the physical touch immediately, then flit away.

"Well, how was your outing?" he asks, trying not seem nonchalant when it's clear he's anything but.

"Very nice," I say, filling in the blanks for April. It's not hard to tell that she's not Antonio's biggest fan. I'm not, either, but I've developed an immunity. "We'll be retiring now. It was a long day."

He gives us a nod and backs off, finally. Showing her exhaustion, April melts against my side and I let her, keeping a firm hand on her opposite hip and we make our way up the stairs.

When we get to our room, I remove my arm and begin to unbutton my shirt. She heads into the bathroom, presumably to change, but doesn't quite get inside before pausing in the doorway - hands clasped at her waist.

I notice that she's frozen and glance over my shoulder just as she does. She's blinking rapidly, worrying her lower lip with her teeth, opening and closing her lips.

"I… are you… going to…" she stammers.

"We planned on sleeping together tonight, didn't we," I say, nodding towards the bed while still working on my buttons.

Her cheeks flame at my usage of the phrase, and I chuckle to myself. Sometimes, she seems so hardened and witty, yet others she's soft and vulnerable. I'm not sure how to handle either side yet. She continues to surprise me with her duality.

"Yeah," she says, avoiding my gaze to look at the floor. "I'll just… change, then."

"So will I."

She retreats into the bathroom and stays in there for a good while. I hear the sink running as she brushes her teeth and removes her makeup, and I pull down the bed to get it ready for us. I notice her things have taken up residence on the right nightstand, so I take the left side.

When she comes out, I'm already reclined on the mattress, hands behind my head. For some reason, she's never seemed smaller. She's dressed in a pair of matching green silk pajamas - shorts and a camisole - and her auburn curls are voluminous as they lie on her shoulders. With her face free of makeup, her skin shines and her natural beauty comes out. For the first time, I don't think 'common' when I see her.

The first word I think is 'beautiful,' and that's enough to scare me.

"Oh," she says, coming around to the side deemed as hers. "You're already… all comfy."

"Yes," I say, blinking slowly while still watching her.

She lifts one knee onto the mattress and then the other, moving at a snail's pace like I might reach out and bite her. I don't say anything, though; I let her go at her own pace. I've begun to learn that allowing her as much is helpful. She doesn't like to be rushed or forced.

But eventually, she settles onto her back and lies staring at the ceiling. I sneak glances at her from the corner of my eye, seeing that her body is completely rigid, hands folded over her ribcage. Between us, she's usually the one who's fluid and comfortable, and I'm more closed off. But as of right now, I've never seen her more distant.

I turn onto my side, hoping she will too. She doesn't. She keeps her eyes trained on the ceiling like there's something very interesting up there - and even after I follow her gaze to check, I find nothing.

"April," I say - my voice is soft, but it makes her flinch.

"What," she replies.

"Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine," she says, adjusting a bit.

I stay on my side, eyes still trained on her. It's blatantly obvious that she's not comfortable, it's all in her body language. She drums her fingers on her elevated ribcage and chews the inside of her lip some more, still doing everything she can to avoid eye contact.

"April…" I say again.

"What?" she responds, this time with a little more bite.

I don't know why I'm so amused, but I am. I'm not the type for teasing, usually, but she makes it so easy. Right now, we're in such an intimate position and both of our walls are down. That's a rare occurrence in itself, and it's making me feel a bit differently about her. I'm getting to see a side that I normally don't.

"Have you ever been in bed with a man before?" I ask. "Slept in the same bed, I mean."

Her mouth falls open and her eyebrows tilt towards each other. "I…" she begins, then makes a frustrated sound. "No. Not like it's any of your business, but no."

I lift myself onto an elbow, trying to figure her out. "Then how does it make sense that you're not a virgin?" I ask, calling back to our previous conversation.

She looks at me, but only with her eyes. She doesn't move her head, but she doesn't need to in order to glower in my direction.

"There are such things as hookups, you know," she says, snappily.

I shake my head and narrow my eyes. "I don't believe you," I say.

"What do you mean?" she volleys back. "I'm not lying. I've never slept in bed with a man before."

"Yeah, I buy that much," I say. "But you not being a virgin because of a hookup? No."

She squints angrily, raising her upper lip. "What are you talking about?" she says.

"You're not that kind of girl," I say, confidently.

She scoffs. "You don't know me," she says. "Or 'what kind of girl' I am. So, you can forget that idea right now."

"I know you well enough," I say, scooting a bit closer as she's turned on her side. "I have a talent for reading people. And you're as innocent as they come, aren't you? I mean, look at you. You can't even lie next to me without going all squiddy."

"That's not a word," she says.

"It is, and you know what I mean," I say. "Just admit it, April. You're 21 and you've never had sex. It's fine, it's a fine thing to admit. What isn't attractive is lying about it."

"I am not lying," she says, sitting up while supporting her weight with one arm. "I'm not, so get off your high horse. I hate it when you talk to me like this."

"I don't like being lied to," I say. "When was your first kiss?" Before she can answer, I cut in with, "Was I there for it? Was it with me?"

"Why do you _care_?" she says emphatically. "It doesn't matter. We're married now, whatever that means, and I'm tied to you. You're tied to me. The past shouldn't matter."

"Darling, the past always matters," I say, voice smooth as silk.

She groans loudly, baring her teeth. "You are such an ass!" she explodes. "I thought I was starting to see a different side of you tonight, the real side. But that's not true, is it? You were putting on a front for my family. It was all fake. This… this is you. The real you. The asshole!"

Though I don't show it, that creates a chink in my armor. I don't like being called names, especially ones that aren't true.

"Think whatever you want about me," I say. "But we're still married."

"Believe me, I'm aware," she says.

"You should start getting used to it," I say, growing tense. Her chest heaves with exertion and her face is still flushed. I've upset her, and it's obvious. She's upset me, too, but I'm better at hiding it. "It's not going to change."

"You should learn how to treat people with respect and decency," she says.

"Oh, that's rich," I say. "What would you call today, then? A simple favor? That was me being kind to you, April."

"It was common courtesy," she fires back. "It shouldn't have been a favor. It wasn't an exchange. I shouldn't have to feel guilty for being allowed to see my family."

"Then stop feeling guilty," I say. "And stop lying to me."

"What am I lying about?" she says. "My virgin status? Why are you so hung up on that? Let it go, Jackson. I'm not a virgin, deal with it. You don't own me."

"The legality of our marriage would state otherwise," I say, eyes burning.

"Get this through your head," she says, getting closer to my face. "You do _not_ own me. No one owns anyone. I could end this tomorrow, and you'd be nothing without me."

"I'd be nothing?" I sputter. "Me? Are you kidding?"

She raises her chin and purses her lips, sticking with what she's said.

"You'd be back on the streets," I say. "All of you would, without this. Without me."

She rolls her eyes. "How many times are we going to have this argument?" she asks.

"As many times as it takes for you to understand how important our bond is," I say.

"Why?" she says. "Why is it so important? Why did it have to be me? How come I'm the one you plucked off the street to be kept in your ivory tower?"

I don't have a response. My lips fall apart and I stare at her for a moment, unblinking, while she gives me the same in return.

"You are so ungrateful," I spit.

"It's not ungrateful to want to be treated like a human being," she says. "To not have my previous lifestyle judged, and to be controlled every step - every breath! - I take. You are so unfair to me. If you want me to stop acting like a prisoner, stop treating me like one. You aren't my captor."

"Tell yourself that," I say. "I've given you everything, and all you do is throw it back in my face. How am I supposed to know how to treat you?"

"Like you'd treat anyone!" she exclaims. "But I forgot, you're too good to interact with common folk. It must be strange for you."

"You don't want me to judge you, yet you pass judgments on me every chance you get," I say. "You say that I don't know you, but you assume you know me. You're wrong, April. You don't know a thing about me. You think you do, but you don't."

"And how should I?" she counters. "You tell me nothing. You think you're better than me."

"You keep lying to me!" I bellow.

"I am not lying!" she shouts back, eyes glistening.

There's a charged moment that crackles with electricity. It thrums between us like something alive, and I know she feels it, too. Her pupils are fat - so wide nearly her entire iris is black, and the expression in them is unrecognizable.

If I'm reading her correctly, which I'd like to think I am, she's looking at me with heady lust. The twitching in my pants gives away my identical feeling, and I've just begun to think of ways to remedy it when she jolts forward and covers my mouth with hers.

It takes me by surprise, but only for a moment. I flinch at the sudden contact, but I soon take control of the situation she initiated. I hold both sides of her head and kiss her hard - nothing about this is soft or gentle. She's pissed at me, emotions are running high, and there's no better option than this to bring them down.

She tastes like mint toothpaste, and I can only assume the same for myself. I completely ravage her mouth with mine, parting the seam of her lips with my tongue so it can slip inside. She lets out a breathy moan as I do, and I push her to lie on her back under me.

I straddle her hips, taking full control, and rest one hand on her hip while the other keeps my balance. Her fingers find their way to the open skin on the small of my back, and she pushes my shirt up further to run her fingers through the sparse hair there. Because of her idle, comfortable touch, I kiss her deeper and with more passion - if possible.

She whimpers when I bite her bottom lip, completely submitted to me. Her breath comes in tepid bursts and her heart pounds heavy through her sternum - at full speed. Kissing each other like this is brand new for both of us, but judging by how well she's keeping up, she's no newcomer to it in general.

Maybe she was telling the truth when she said she wasn't a virgin.

It shouldn't matter, and it doesn't. I don't care about the concept of virginity; it's made up. What I care about is being lied to. I've been lied to about many things throughout my life, and honesty is something I treasure. April strikes me as someone who values the truth as well, and I don't want lies between us.

I understand that forcing honesty isn't the way to go, but unfortunately I'm not well-versed in much else.

I move the hand that's resting on her hip up higher, over the keyboard of her ribcage until it lands on the softness of her breast. Her chest is small, smaller than I'm used to, but I like the fact that my hand covers the entire thing with the prick of her nipple right in the middle of my palm.

I drop wet kisses down her neck and leave a trail of saliva, then cover her breast with my mouth - through the sheeny green fabric. Instantly, her mouth falls open and she gasps lasciviously, letting an exhale free only moments later as she runs her hands over my closely-shaven head.

"Mmm…" she moans, body writhing beneath me.

I know my way around a woman's body, and I'm confident in my skills. I know what buttons to push hard and what ones to push soft - of course, there are differences across the board, but the same baselines. The nipples are always great, as as is the neck. What's placed between their legs goes unspoken as to how wonderful it is.

I bite April's nipple through the fabric, and that makes her whine with pleasure. I have the undying urge to ask her if she's had this done to her before, but I hold my tongue. Figuratively, at least. Literally, my tongue does what it wants in sending her closer and closer to the edge.

Since the first moment I saw her, I wondered what it would be like to have her in bed. I didn't obsess over it, I'm not a pervert, but it's something that crossed my mind. I never expected she'd be so vocal, so beautifully responsive, so soft and smooth. She's gentle, while at the same time, arousingly confident. She's not afraid to let me know what feels good.

As I smile against her chest, one hand slips between her legs to cup her over her shorts. She jumps, surprised by the contact, but soon relaxes as I begin to stroke her.

She lets out a long breath, on sensory overload. I've created a wide wet spot on her chest with my mouth, and she's created one of her own on the crotch of her shorts. She works against my hand, undulating her hips in the same rhythm, and grips the back of my head to hold it in place. She doesn't need to worry, though - I don't plan on going anywhere.

I move my hand more roughly, feeling heat emanate from her body. I don't bother sliding any fingers inside her because I don't need to, not yet at least. She's close enough as it is, and I want to make it happen this way first. Just to prove that I can.

I kiss the side of her neck and cover half of her body with mine, accidentally rubbing the bulge in my pants against her. I pull back instinctively, but with her eyes closed, she finds me with her fingers and strokes me at the same rate I'm stroking her.

"Fuck," I grunt, quickening my pace.

She widens her legs and lifts her hips, asking for it, and I do everything I can to make that orgasm happen. I draw tight, rapid circles with my first two fingers over the fabric of her shorts and she lets out the loudest moan yet, burying her face in the crook of my neck as she quakes and spasms beneath me.

She throws an arm around my shoulders while she comes down, still pumping me over the pants. I'm practically euphoric, though I haven't come yet, kissing her all over as she gets me close. I press my lips to her cheeks, her chin, her jaw, then lower to the open plane of her chest. I glide my nose over her hard nipples and move further down, hips bucking against her hand as she keeps stroking me, then flip up the hem of her camisole.

Everything changes when I do, though. In contrast to how lax and boneless she'd been just seconds before, her body turns to stone and she scrambles out from under me, fixing her shirt as she crabwalks to the upper corner of the bed.

Her eyes are wide, animalistic, and frightened. Her lips are kissed swollen and her face is flushed, but something has changed.

"Sorry," I say, though I'm not sure what I did wrong.

She smooths her shirt, making sure her skin is covered. She doesn't say a word, she just looks at me with that deer-in-the-headlights expression. She's panting, shoulders heaving dramatically, and all I'm left with is a raging, expectant erection.

She shakes her head and licks her lips, then swallows loudly. Her eyes don't land in one place for more than a millisecond, and her protective hands haven't left her belly.

"Sorry," she whispers, tucking her hair behind her ear and ducking her chin to her chest.

"Right," I say, then slide out of bed. There's no way I can go to sleep in the state I'm in.

"I'm sorry," she calls again, this time a little more desperate. "Where're you going? I'm sorry."

"I just… I have to take care of…" I say, gesturing towards the tent I've made of my pants.

"Oh," she says, timidly. "Are you coming back?"

"If you want me to."

She nods, and I return the gesture. I go into the bathroom and turn on the shower, stepping in for a quick moment to take care of myself. Luckily, I was nearly there, so it doesn't take long. After I'm done, I towel myself dry and redress, then step back into the bedroom expecting to still see those doe eyes on me.

I'm wrong, though. April is turned onto her side to face the window, dressed in a new pair of pajamas. These are pink - long pants with a tank top - and her hair is up in a bun. From the looks of how deeply her side is rising and falling, she's already asleep.

I crawl in behind her, then lie staring at the back of her ginger head. It feels like I stay there forever, blinking against the darkness, wondering what the hell just happened.

I roll over eventually, but sleep still won't come. Now, I just stare at the wall and wonder what went wrong. It was obviously something, but I don't know what. One moment, she was reveling in her orgasm. So was I. Then the next, she acted like I'd burned her with a fire poker, unable to even look at me. What did I do? What the fuck did I do?

I lie awake for what seems like hours. Eventually, surprising me, April rolls over in her sleep and scoots closer, making my back stiffen. In one fluid movement, she throws an arm over my waist and presses her forehead between my shoulder blades, tucking one small foot between my ankles.

It's the last thing I expected, but it's what gets me to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**APRIL**

I wake up in the middle of the night with a start, fragments of a nightmare still flashing behind my eyes. I can't remember what it was about - I never can - but that's probably to my advantage. I have a feeling I wouldn't like the images much if they stuck with me.

The feeling of residual fear isn't preferable, though, either. I lie there for a moment, completely frozen, waiting for my heartbeat to slow. Instinctively, I reach for one of my little sisters to pull her closer, but instead I come into contact with a very bare, very sturdy stomach.

I whip my hand away like he burned me. Though his skin was pleasantly warm, I can't let myself touch him. Glancing over, I'm surprised he's still here after how I acted last night.

I won't look at him. I keep my eyes directed towards the ceiling. But now, I can't ignore the soft rise and fall of his breath as he sleeps peacefully beside me. I've never been in his presence when he's so calm, and it's somewhat of a comfort. If I wanted it to be, that is. If I wanted it to be comforting, it would. But I don't need any comforting from him.

I'm not upset that he stayed. If I remember correctly, I asked him to. It wasn't anything he did wrong, that's not why I reacted in the way I did. He doesn't need to know the reason behind my reaction, it doesn't matter anymore. It happened, it's over, and that's that.

I lace my hands together on my stomach, listen to it growl, then close my eyes to let out a deep exhale. Maybe it wasn't a nightmare that woke me after all. Maybe I'm just hungry. It wouldn't be the first time a rumbling stomach took me out of sleep, but it would be the first time it's uncalled for. I've been eating better here than I have for my whole life; I have no reason to be hungry. I've gone days without food before. This is pathetic; I can go a few hours without eating something.

I have a good life here. I have food when I need it, a beautiful roof over my head, and gorgeous clothes on my back. If all of this holds true, though, then why do I feel so empty? Why do I feel so alone with another person lying right next to me?

A person who I can't even look at. One who I was making out with just hours ago, who had almost pushed too far, past a point I wouldn't be able to explain my way out of.

But I had kissed him. I had started it. I don't know what came over me - it was so unlike me, I barely recognized myself. I burst the bubble between us, I cracked the tension until it spilled all over us. I can still remember the way his mouth felt over mine, how his tongue felt against my lips, how his saliva had soaked through my camisole onto my breast when he was kissing me there. I've never felt that before.

I can't let myself admit that it felt amazing and I want it again. I can't think that way. We shouldn't have - _I_ shouldn't have - done what I did. I don't want my walls down, and I don't want him to think he can knock them down. There's plenty about my life that he doesn't know and would never, ever understand.

Things that I haven't unearthed for years, and never will again. If I do, they'll only cause me pain. I could barely come back from it when it happened. Talking about it would do no one any good. It's not like Jackson could be of any support.

He and I are nothing alike, I know that much for certain. I also know he has secrets of his own, just as I do.

I still can't stop thinking about what transpired before we fell asleep, as much as I convince myself that it was inconsequential, that it didn't matter.

He made me come. I can't remember the last time I had an orgasm; it's been years. But he coaxed one out like he knew exactly the right way, without faltering. So confidently, like my body already belonged to him.

I press my thighs together now, remembering what it was like. It was a lot to take in. I don't know when the last time was that my body felt that good. Maybe never.

I'd almost made him come, too, though I'd almost forgotten. It's not difficult with a man. I learned that once.

I think we would've had sex, had I allowed it. Had I not stopped our little escapade and put my head on straight, I'm sure we would have gone all the way. And that's not what I wanted, it's still not what I want.

At least, I don't think I want it.

I close my eyes to try and fall back to sleep, evening out my breath while attempting to clear my mind of the whirlwind inside. Of course, it doesn't work. It never works. I'm not sure what time it is, but it's probably close to 5am. That was the time I'd normally get up, back when my life was the way it used to be, and my internal clock still hasn't switched over.

I roll onto my side from my back, making the temptation to look at Jackson less apparent. I stare out the window, but instead of seeing anything outside, my body through the darkness is all I can see reflected back. I see myself lying there, arms tucked by my face, hair tied up on my head, looking the same as I always have but living a life belonging to someone else.

I feel a shift behind me, which makes my shoulders tense. I try and look behind me with just my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest, but I can't see a thing.

He continues to move and get comfortable though, seemingly not able to find a spot that suits him. I furrow my eyebrows, begging him to just _stay still_ , until he does something that catches me off guard. He scoots closer and throws a heavy arm over my middle, like it's something we do every night.

I widen my eyes and look down at his masculine hand resting atop my ribcage, fingers lax and spread out. I can feel his breath in even puffs on the back of my neck, until he lets out a long sigh that flutters the curls pulling out of my bun and tightens his arm a bit.

"Hmm…" he stirs. "April."

My breath hitches and my eyes flit around, nervous now. "Yeah?" I say, disrupting the cool silence.

He doesn't respond. I frown again, this time deeper, and let my fingers dance on his wrist. I had moved with the intention of picking his arm up and casting it aside, but I can't seem to do so. Instead, I twist under the weight of it so we're facing each other, nearly nose-to-nose.

"What," I whisper, my voice cutting through the still darkness.

His eyes are closed, lips unmoving, undisturbed. He's still asleep. He said my name in his sleep.

My cheeks blush red because of it, and because his eyes are closed and he can't see me, I don't try and hide it. Instead, I use this small moment to stay where I am and study his face, study what I can't while he's awake and putting me on the spot for staring.

He has intricate freckles across the bridge of his nose that I briefly noticed before, when we'd kissed in the very beginning, but I hadn't realized how many. There are small groups of them, smattering his skin in defined patterns. I resist the urge to touch them, to count them one by one. It's such a sentimental thing to do - such a wifely thing - and no matter what role I'm playing, I can't seem to convince myself that that's what I am. It can't be true, that I'm really his wife. I never thought I'd be anything to anyone. So, I don't touch him.

His eyebrows are perfect, though. Not bushy or unkempt, but definitely masculine. They're thick and commanding, but all the hairs lie in one direction without any rogues sticking up. Their color is a beautiful black, one that I feel I could sink into if I let myself. But I won't, of course.

His eyelashes are probably longer than mine, without mascara, and his lips are the perfect shade of pink. They're slack now, pushed out with the relaxation of sleep, and before I can stop myself, I find one of my hands raised with my pointer finger out, tracing the pout of the lower one. It's softer than I imagined, though I should've known. It was plastered against my mouth not that long ago.

I take my hand away as I remember how he had me. Pinned under him, at his mercy, and I had enjoyed it. I liked the way his body overcame mine and took control, I liked how he knew what he was doing. I liked being led for once, instead being the one leading. It was refreshing, invigorating, and incredibly arousing.

I make myself stop thinking about it, though. I can't, not while I'm in bed right next to him.

Then, his eyelashes flutter and he presses his lips together. A soft sound emanates from his throat as he rises to the surface, and I close my eyes to feign sleep and pretend I wasn't just staring at his face for moments on end.

"Mmm…" he hums, inhaling deeply as he wakes up. I don't know why he's conscious right now. He likes to sleep in.

Instead of moving away, he tightens the arm that had gotten comfortable around my waist. He presses his palm against the small of my back and pulls me closer, maneuvering my body easily under the covers. I let him.

"I know you're awake," he says, surprising me.

I open my eyes instantly, directly into his. That sends a bit of a shock through my system, but I do everything to hide it. Still, the color is enough to knock the wind out of me. The expression is worse - soft, warm, and without pretense so early in the morning.

"How?" I manage to ask.

"Why do you think I woke up?" he says. "Felt eyes on me. You were staring."

"I was not," I claim.

"Don't bother with lying," he says. "Believe me, I know I'm easy on the eyes."

I scoff and flash the biggest eye-roll that I can. "You know, you're very good at ruining things," I say.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You and your… your pompous behavior," I say. "It's off-putting."

"Funny, no one's ever told me that before," he tells me.

"I'm sure they're thinking it. Because it puts me off."

"And you're the center of the universe?" he counters.

"Quite the opposite," I volley back. "That would be you, right?"

He chuckles. "Finally, you're starting to understand."

"Ugh," I groan, then turn away from him.

For a second, I thought I might actually have some fluttering feelings for him, and they were scaring the life out of me. Now, I'm happy to report that I don't. He still annoys and disgusts me as much as he did before our accidental makeout session.

"Don't 'ugh' me," he says, then flips me over with a hand on my hip. "Jesus. Bony enough?"

"Stop it," I snap, and smack his hand away from me.

"Jesus Christ," he says, pulling back. "If you don't want me to touch you, just tell me. You're sending me a lot of mixed fuckin' signals. First, you kiss me and you let me finger you-"

"You did not…" I trail off, letting the word die before it passes my lips. I can't bear to say it. I clear my throat. "You did not do that to me."

"Oh, then was it a ghost who had his hand shoved between your legs and made you come through your shorts?"

My face blushes hotter than I've ever experienced. I gasp audibly, my cool palms reaching to press against my burning cheeks.

"Yeah. That's what I thought," he mumbles.

"You didn't…" I purse my lips. " _Finger_ me. Nothing went inside."

"Technicalities. I still made you come."

"You rubbed me," I practically whisper, unable to raise my voice any higher. "There was no skin on skin."

He turns onto his side, voice close to my ear. "Wanna change that?" he asks.

I shove him away with my shoulder, and he laughs. I know he's not serious. He's not that much of a prick, though he is that arrogant to assume as much.

"As I was saying," he says. "I never know where I stand with you. First, I'm getting you off and you're loving it. Then, you freak out and act like you never wanted any of it. But then, you snuggle up to me to fall asleep."

"I did not," I say.

He laughs. "You sure did."

"No, I didn't. You did as much to me, just now."

"I'm not even touching you."

"You were," I say. "You were spooning me, when you were asleep."

"So, you admit it," he says. "You were awake and staring at me. And apparently, letting me cuddle you. Not so bothered now, huh?"

"I don't have to listen to this," I say, moving to sit up before he takes my wrist.

"Hey," he says. "Come on. Don't leave. It's barely 5:30, where do you plan on going?"

I rip my wrist away and cradle it close to my chest, shooting a death glare over my shoulder. There's a glint in his eyes that I can see only because of the low light, and it beckons me back to bed against my better judgment.

He keeps his eyes centered on me as I lie back down, and I narrow mine. "What?" I snap.

"You're so skinny," he says. "I could snap your wrist if I wanted to."

"Thank you, that's a very comforting sentiment."

He lets out a sound that's a mixture between a scoff and a laugh. "Sorry," he says. "Apparently, I always say the wrong thing when it comes to you."

"You do," I say.

"I admit it," he replies, and that strikes a chord within me. It's the first admittance to come from him - or, at least, the only one that's held any weight.

"Good."

"So… tell me," he says. "How does someone get so skinny?"

"By not eating," I say, right away. "And it wasn't by choice, before you go spewing something about me having an eating disorder.

"I wasn't going to 'spew' anything," he says. "Believe it or not, I'm capable of listening."

"I'll believe that when I see it," I grumble.

He stares at me, unblinking, seemingly expectant.

"What?" I say.

He chuckles. "So quick to bite my head off. I'm listening. I'm waiting for the rest."

"Sorry," I say. "I'm not used to you letting me speak."

Something flashes across his eyes and changes his expression, but it slips away before I can get a good reading on what it was. He keeps his eyes centered on me, and it comes across that my only option is to keep talking.

"We just didn't have food some nights," I say. "Well, I mean, we did. But what little I could get my hands on always went to my little sisters. And if that meant I went without, it was fine. I always made it through. As you can see, I'm alive."

Two tiny lines appear between his eyebrows. It's clear he's troubled. I haven't seen this look on him yet. He doesn't verbally respond, though, which prompts me to continue.

"It was hard, yeah. But what's my suffering compared to theirs? They're babies. Babies shouldn't go hungry. Babies shouldn't go to school with rips in their clothes or dirt on their faces. Babies shouldn't feel that pain. Any pain."

I realize my eyes have started to grow hot, and tears threaten to fall over at any given second. I blink hard to quell the feeling, and sniffle loudly. I don't want to cry, especially not in front of Jackson. Who knows what he'd say.

"Hey," he says. "Breathe. They're fine now. Right? You saw them. They're living large in Lincoln Park."

I don't respond. I'm still trying to pull myself together - hurting from more than what little he knows.

"Right?" he tries, a second time.

"Right," I say finally, attempting a smile.

"Well." He clears his throat. He's no good at empathy, or even sympathy, but I think he might be trying. "That sounds horrible. I don't think I could do what you've done."

"You're right. You couldn't," I say, hardening again.

He recoils a bit, and I find myself wanting to take the quip back. I have no way of doing so, though, so I let it continue to hang in the air between us.

I wring my hands and try to make amends for what I've said by softening it a bit. "I haven't had an easy life," I say. "But it's fine. I'm used to it. Or… I was."

He blinks softly, eyelashes slowly fanning down until his eyes open again. It's nearly putting me in a trance, how he moves his body - even in the smallest of ways.

"Last night," he says. "When I touched you. I touched you wrong. Didn't I?" His face changes, grows different, somehow younger and more vulnerable. "What did I do wrong?" he asks. I've never heard him sound so open and unguarded.

I can't match it, though. Not with this subject.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, words falling from my mouth quicker than I know what I'm saying.

"April…" he says, letting my name trail off at the end. "When you panicked and shoved me away. I had obviously done something wrong. Can you just tell me, so I don't do it again?"

I feel my gaze smooth over, now emotionless. If I bury the feelings deep enough, maybe they won't come back up. Last night was a fluke. I haven't acted on such a primal instinct in years - but I knew I couldn't let him go any further with me. There are some things he just doesn't need to know.

"I just wasn't ready for it all," I say, trying to keep my voice even. "If I hadn't stopped us, we would've had sex. Would we not?"

He's trying to read me. I can tell by the way his irises flick back and forth between my eyes, trying to find something that he can latch onto and analyze. He won't find a thing, though. I'm good at hiding what I need to; it's an imperative skill, when your life is as layered as mine has been.

"Probably," he says.

"I didn't want that," I say.

He's quiet for a moment, but just a moment. And even during that small amount of time, I can practically hear him thinking.

"Ever?" he says.

"Why do you care?" I ask, flipping my head to look at him.

My tone has bite to it. He's too close for comfort. Not physically, either. I don't like someone in the vicinity of my secrets, of my past that leaves much to be desired. This isn't something people can guess about me, and it's definitely not something I make people aware of. It's a deeply buried part of me that will never rise up. He won't be the one to do it, either. I'll do all I can to push him away from this tomb and towards the mirror lake I've spent so long creating of myself.

"We're married," he says, letting his head fall forward a bit. "I know it's not conventional, by any means, but…"

"Are you saying that you expect me to have sex with you?" I ask, voice rising in pitch.

It's not that I've never let the idea cross my mind - it _is_ what married couples do, after all. But speaking it out loud is a different story.

The way I state the question makes him balk, which I'm not used to seeing. He's faltered more during this conversation than I've seen him do up until this point. It's a little unsettling.

"I guess not, if it's not something you're interested in," he says, refusing to meet my eyes.

There's something he isn't saying, it's clear that there's more to this than he's willing to let on. For a moment, I debate whether or not I should press him on the issue, but decide against it. My pushing would only give him grounds to push back, and I'm not willing to be prodded into spilling anything of mine.

If I'm allowed to keep my past covered, he can keep whatever he's hiding, too. Nothing is as important as protecting what I've spent five years shielding from the world.

…

I didn't know houses were supposed to have conference rooms, but apparently ours does.

It's still strange, calling the mansion 'ours.' I think it always will be strange. When I think of the word 'always,' I can't help but turn over the question as to how long I'll be here. For how long do I get to come to this place and call it home?

It was stupid not to think of the long or short term in relation to mine and Jackson's marriage, but it's not a question I feel I can ask now. It seems too legal, too contracted, too unspoken.

But forever is an awfully long time to spend with a stranger.

The conference room is sparsely decorated, with a few modern pieces on the walls and a long, mahogany table set in the middle. Jackson and I sit on one side, Catherine and Calliope on the other.

I'm wearing a pressed, Gucci suit. It's a muted teal with subtle, embellished buttons, and I've never sat up straighter than I'm sitting now. I'm still at a loss as to why we both had to dress up for a meeting with people who we should be comfortable with, but I've learned to stop asking questions about these types of things. There are certain things that I will never understand, and I have to accept that.

I fold my hands on the table, nails glistening, ring sparkling. Both Catherine and Calliope's eyes catch on the jewel on my finger, ostentatious in its glory. I feel embarrassed to be wearing it.

"So," Catherine begins. "How are things coming along?"

I glance to Jackson, who's wearing a stern expression. Infallible, he looks invincible right now, tough and glossed over, like a photo in a magazine. If I reached out, instead of pressing against a pulse, his paper veneer might crumple under my touch.

He turns to me and matches my gaze. For a second, it's like we share something that the two across from us are completely unaware of, like we're becoming a semblance of the couple we're written to be.

"Things are going just fine," he says, and though his words leave much to the imagination, his eyes are actually warm. I find myself not wanting to look away. In this room with these two intimidating people, he's the one I've found comfort in. Somehow, he's begun to play that role while we're among others.

"Don't be so taciturn," Catherine says. "I'm your mother. Calliope is practically part of the family. You don't have to put up your famous front."

"It's not a front," Jackson says. "Things are fine, as I said."

Catherine's eyes roam to me, and I wish they hadn't. It's not a comforting feeling, knowing she's watching me, waiting for me to come up with a response. I know nothing I say will be good enough. Nothing I say will live up to her standards. Though she's the one who plucked me from obscurity, I get the feeling she thinks I'm not good enough for her son. And she's right - I'm not, not as far as status is concerned, anyway.

"Good," I say. "They're good."

"I heard you've taken to sleeping in the same bed," she continues, almost as if I hadn't spoken.

I blush. I don't know why, but I do. Jackson clears his throat and says, "Yes. I see you've spoken to your correspondent."

"Antonio, yes," she says. "He has your best interest in mind, Jackson. Don't be so hard on him."

"He has no one's interests in mind but his own," Jackson answers, and something swells in my chest hearing him counter back so quickly. "He pries into our business when it's not his place."

"Your life is more public than you'd like to think," Catherine says, then looks to me again. "And I'm sure you've found that out, haven't you, dear?"

All I can do is nod. I don't want to speak again. I don't feel right speaking here; my voice doesn't belong. Suddenly, I want to be alone with Jackson. We barely get along, but anything would be better than this.

"You'll get another large dose of it soon," she says. "At the governor's ball. I'm sure you'll both have such a lovely time there."

My mouth goes dry. Jackson hadn't told me about a ball, but judging by the look on his face, he either hadn't known or he'd forgotten.

"Right," he says, his voice a bit dampened. "Yes."

Catherine doesn't miss a beat. "So, half of the inheritance has found its way to you, it's official," she says, her voice smooth as honey as she watches her son. "It's yours to do with whatever you choose. But the second half, on the other hand, is still sitting in the vault. Far, far away from you."

Jackson gives a terse nod, and his cheeks bulge with the tension of his jaw. I look to him with confusion, not knowing what she means by a 'second half' of the inheritance. I had no reason to believe that my signature on our marriage document wouldn't guarantee him all he's worth.

"And you know what it'll take for that money to come," she says.

I've never seen Jackson more rigid. His back is painfully straight, neck stiff, hands frozen. There's something about what she's saying that he really doesn't like.

"No matter how silly your purpose for the money - and, yes, I'll say it now and a thousand times over, your intended use for it _is_ silly - you won't see it until-"

"I'm aware," he says, his voice commanding the room.

Catherine raises her eyebrows, obviously taken aback by his brusque manner of speaking. I am, too, but I try not to show it. I want to support him. It's clear that he's not comfortable around his mother, and I feel defensive. I'm not sure why. He's my husband on paper, that's true, but until now I've never felt any sort of allegiance to him.

I can't help but wonder how that could change so quickly.

I don't open my mouth for the rest of the meeting. In fact, I tune it out. Jackson barely speaks, either, and his mother doesn't go near the subject that he so vehemently avoided. I can't stop thinking about what the constituent is. Is that what he's been hiding from me? It can't be. It seems like so much more than that. How bad could it possibly be? Does he need _another_ wife? Because I don't plan on sharing.

After Catherine leaves and the meeting is adjourned, Calliope lingers and pulls Jackson to the side before he has a chance to disappear with me. They go to a far corridor without so much as throwing a glance back to me, so I watch them. I don't attempt to follow - I know that would be a mistake - but they don't notice my eyes.

They talk close. Her eyes are wide and serious, and his neck is bent forward, listening intently. With his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunch by his ears and give him a diminutive look. He's flustered, that much is clear. I want to know why.

When Jackson starts back in my direction, his eyes are cast towards the floor and he has a worry line on his forehead. Once he reaches me, I resist the urge to reach up and smooth it away. It would counteract everything I said and showcased before, about not wanting intimacy with him, and it goes against all the thoughts I had this morning about not letting him in. One soft touch, and I'm done for. He'll have broken me down.

Maybe that's a silly, irrational thought. Maybe I'm a silly, irrational person, but I've stuck by my ways for so long. I don't know what would happen if I stopped now. He's too dangerous for me to test it - if I let him in, what would happen after? The dam would break, the floodwater would surely drown me. It's a risk I can't - and don't want to - take.

"Is everything okay?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

I want to take his hands. I stare at them, now out of his pockets, hanging loose between us. I want to hold them and look into his eyes, soothe that concern on his face, and let him know without saying a word that everything is okay. I don't like seeing him upset. It makes everything else feel off-kilter.

I give in and take his hands. I stop resisting, just for a moment, and reach between us to envelop his fingers in mine. His are much bigger, much sturdier, but my wisp of a grip sends a wave of emotion across his face that I hadn't expected.

Our hands linked together makes my heart thump violently against my chest plate. I don't know why this contact is so much more intimate than where we'd been last night, but it is. Right now, there's nothing between us. We're on the same plane. He needs me, for the first time, he needs me and I'm allowing myself to be there for him.

"Our room," he says, stroking my skin with his thumbs. "Please."

My lips part with a silent gasp as he leads the way, unlacing our hands to slink an arm across my lower back as we ascend the stairs, away from any listening ears.

Once we're inside behind a closed door, he sits on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. I'm not sure what my next move is, standing there watching him, so I do what comes naturally. I walk over, sit next to him, and wrap arm around his mid-back to try and give him something that resembles comfort.

Admittedly, I'm not sure how to comfort a grown man. I've never been presented with the chance, but I do my best. He's not in a puddle of tears like my sisters would be, but this is almost worse. He's tense, upset, and silent. I don't have a remedy for this.

"Jackson," I say, keeping my voice quiet. "What were you and Calliope talking about?" I blink a few times, turning my head to try and see his face. He keeps it covered, though. "Was it about what your mother said, what you wouldn't let her say? About the other half of the inheritance? What did she mean by that?"

His shoulders rise as he inhales deeply. "Enough with the questions!" he says, storming to his feet.

I jump, flinching away from his sudden outburst. My temper reacts accordingly, though - I won't be taken advantage of when I'm only curious, trying to make him feel better. I won't be stomped on.

"Don't yell at me," I say, chin quivering. "Do not raise your voice at me."

He scrubs a hand over his face, letting out a forceful sound of anger. "Jesus Christ," he mutters, pacing back and forth.

"Just answer me," I say, still sitting on the end of the bed where he'd just been. "I don't understand what's so difficult about that."

He sighs deeply. "You aren't on a need-to-know basis with everything, April," he growls.

"I'm your wife," I say, bunching my fists at my sides.

"That's the thing!" he says, blowing up again as he throws his arms into the air. "You love to toss that moniker around when it's useful, don't you? When it gets you a little more weight in the game. But when you don't want it, you cast it to the side. It's that easy. Guess what, April? You don't get to pick and choose."

"I know," I say. "I'm aware of that. It just seems that you need reminding. You do the same thing. You act possessive of me one minute, get intimate with me another, then act like I don't exist."

"Don't," he says. "That argument is old. You don't have a leg to stand on, and you want to throw that at me, fine. I've included you in everything lately. In the meeting today, I protected you from my mother. She would've torn you to shreds if she had the chance. But I didn't give her that chance - and I will never."

I back down a bit, surprised at the statement. I hadn't been aware of what he was doing.

"I still deserve to know what you're keeping from me," I say, watching him while he walks from one side of the room to the other. "I know it's something. More than one thing, I'm sure. Just tell me this - what is going on with the other half of the inheritance?"

"It doesn't concern you," he says, and his voice is thin.

"That's not true," I say, finally standing. "I'm half of this marriage. I'm entitled to that money, too. You have no argument against that." I sputter for a moment, then say something I hadn't even been aware I was thinking. "I have ideas for that money, too!"

He narrows his eyes and studies me, disbelieving. "Don't say things you don't mean," he says.

"Don't underestimate me," I say. "I do have ideas for it."

"Like what?"

"A charity," I say. "I want to found a charity."

"For what?"

"Why does it matter, if we don't have the money ?Why won't you just tell me the reason why? What do we need to do? What's the big secret?"

He spins on his heel to face me. "What's _your_ big secret?" he exclaims.

I take a step back. "I don't have one," I say. "I'm an open book."

"That's hilarious," he says, shaking his head. "Why did you panic last night? Tell me why."

"I didn't panic," I say, unwavering.

"Would you just stop it, April?" he says. "I made you come, goddammit! And you let me - you wanted it. You were humping my hand, you wanted it, it was nothing you didn't want! And then what happened? It was over, and you acted like I did something wrong. I did nothing wrong!"

"No one said you did," I say.

"Were you raped?" he asks. "Is that it, were you violated? Assaulted?"

"No!" I say, shaking my head forcefully. "Why would you think something like that?"

"Why else would you push me away like you did?" he says. "Like you were about to have an anxiety attack. I clearly crossed a boundary I shouldn't have."

"I already told you," I say. "It felt like we were going to have sex, and I didn't want to."

"Why not?"

"I'm not ready!" I insist. "And I shouldn't have to explain myself. You don't have control over this. I say when I want to stop. That's up to me."

"I don't believe you," he says. "It's something more. I know it is."

I clench my teeth, begging myself not to cry. The tears well in my eyes anyway, though, and cloud my vision. I can't be around him anymore.

"I'm going to bed," I say, and storm past him.

"Your bedroom is right here!" he calls after me.

I don't say word. I don't look back. I'm going to the east wing.

…

I lie in the guest room, in the same bed I slept in during my first night here. It's just as lonely as it was then, if not more so.

I didn't bring pajamas, and I have no desire to go back into our room and grab some. So, I stripped my suit and laid it flat, lying atop the covers in my underwear and a t-shirt I found in the drawers that I'd left. I'm cold, but I make no moves to get under the duvet. I need to get up. I'm too hungry to sleep.

I almost don't want to give in to the urge, but I force myself. It would be stupid and wasteful not to, with so many resources laid out in front of me. So, I get up and leave the room, met with a very silent house, and head downstairs to the kitchen.

No one is around. I've never been in the kitchen; it's not warm and homey like the one I'm used to. Instead, it's cool, industrial and full of stainless steel. But I'm hungry and I see a refrigerator, so the aesthetics of it all don't really matter.

I open the door and glance inside to find it fully stocked. The image takes me aback, makes me catch my breath - I'm overwhelmed with options. I'm not used to seeing this - I'm used to odds and ends, the essentials during a good week. This is too much. One household doesn't need all this.

I reach inside and pick out a cup of yogurt, leaving the fridge door open when I go to the silverware drawer for a spoon. As my back is turned and the cutlery clinks against each other, I don't hear the footsteps approach. Instead, all I hear is, "Can't sleep?"

I flip around and gasp, only to see Jackson standing there in his pajamas. He looks so much softer now, it's hard to believe that the same person from before is standing in front of me now.

"You scared me," I say, clutching my chest. My cup of yogurt - thankfully still unopened - fell, so I bend to get it.

"Sorry," he says, and takes my place in front of the fridge.

I watch him from behind, peeling open the cup. "And no," I say. "I couldn't sleep. I was hungry."

"You missed dinner," he says.

"I'm used to it."

He looks over his shoulder. "I don't want you to be used to it," he says, and there's no lighthearted gleam in his eye. "You eat regularly now."

I don't say anything. I do need to eat more. It's all here for me. I'm just not used to the regularity of it all yet.

He leaves the fridge open for a source of light when he turns around holding a bottle of water. He takes a long drink, then sets it down, eyes on me.

"I want to apologize for exploding," he says, without breaking eye contact. "I know it's not productive means of communication, and I'll do my best to keep it from happening again."

My eyebrows raise on their own; I'm thoroughly surprised. That was the last thing I expected him to say. I thought he'd come at me with more poking and prodding, try once again to dig the skeletons out of my closet.

"Oh," I say, stirring my yogurt absentmindedly. "Thank… thank you."

He nods, taking a deep breath while looking down at the tile floor and rubbing the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry, too," I say. "I can be pushy. I know that."

He makes a small sound that gets a smile out of me. We lock eyes, and something flows inside that contact. I set my yogurt and spoon down on the counter and close the space between us, standing directly in front of him and waiting for something to happen that I know eventually will.

He makes the first move this time. He wraps his arms around my shoulders and pulls me in, resting his cheek on top of my head while I hug his waist - tight, too. I close my eyes and lean into him, hoping the myriad of emotions flowing through me are expressed through my body so I don't have to try and say them aloud.

"We're expected at a ball this weekend," he says, hands roving until they find a gentle grip on the slopes of my neck. "There will be dancing."

I look at him soberly, eyes wide and expecting. "I don't know how," I admit.

"I do," he says, then takes my hand with one of his while sliding the other to my waist. "Put your hand on my shoulder," he directs, so I do. "It's simple, really," he says, speaking low and soft. "I move forward, you move back." He smiles a bit, just a little, enough for the corner of his lip to twitch. "And you have to let me lead."

"Okay," I whisper, following the steps.

"It's an easy count, we'll go slow," he says. "One, two, three. One, two, three."

I follow his movements and try to keep up. I've never danced. My body has never moved like this before.

"Quick, quick, slow. Quick, quick, slow."

I look down at our feet to try and make my steps better, but he lets go of my hand to tip my chin up with one finger.

"Don't look down," he says. "Look up. Look at me."

He takes his hand away from my face and clasps mine again, keeping our charged eye contact. He smiles encouragingly, nodding me along, and I can't help but mirror the expression.

And in that moment, in the barely-lit kitchen, slow dancing with him, I know it for sure. I'm going to let him drown me.


	6. Chapter 6

_Check out my twitter (isarahdrew) if you're curious about what April's dress and bracelet look like!_

…

 **JACKSON**

I hear April talking to herself in the next room like she's been doing for the past half hour. I gave her the bathroom to get ready while I took the bedroom, but I'm not sure what she's doing that could be taking so long. She already got her hair and makeup done; what else could be left?

"April," I call, adjusting my cufflinks as I stand near the door. I've been ready for a good chunk of time and patiently waiting. That patience will soon run out, though. "Is everything alright?"

"Um," she says, her voice higher than usual. "Um… well…" She pauses. "No?"

"May I come in?"

"Sure," she says. "But don't expect to see anything great."

I push open the door to find her standing in front of the mirror wearing only a slip. It clings in the right places and flows in others, and her hair and makeup are impeccable. The look in her eyes doesn't match the state of glamor, though, as they're glistening and wide with fear. My stomach sinks as I wonder if she's about to cry.

"What's going on?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. I'm being stupid… just stupid about it."

"You're not stupid," I say. "Tell me what's bothering you."

She clasps her hands and chews on a perfectly painted lip, eyes darting up and down my body as she takes in my suit. It's Dolce and Gabbana, she should take it in. "I'm really nervous," she says. "I feel like I'm gonna throw up. This is too much for me."

"What's too much?"

She lifts her hands, palms up. "All of it," she says. "The people getting me ready, the fact that we're going to a gala meant to celebrate our fake marriage, everything."

"Well, it's technically not fake," I say.

"You know what I mean," she says. "I just don't know if I can do it."

"You don't have much of a choice," I remind her.

"I let you in here because I thought you were capable of calming me down," she says, eyebrows furrowed. "If all you're going to do is make me feel worse, you can leave."

"Breathe," I say, stepping closer with a small smile on my face. "There will be so many people there, barely anyone's focus will be on us."

"But we're the whole reason it's happening," she says. "Which, by the way, you could've told me sooner."

"And have you worry like this sooner?" I say.

She scrunches her nose. I love it when she does that, though I haven't told her. I probably won't ever tell her, lest she stop. "And you telling me there's going to be a ton of people there doesn't make me feel any better either," she comments.

"Well," I say, skimming my hands down from her shoulders all the way to her fingers, holding them in my hands for a brief moment. "I know something that might."

"Half a Xanax?" she asks, a playful lilt in her voice.

"No," I say. "Wait here."

I leave the bathroom and retrace my steps to the bedroom, where I pull out the nightstand drawer to find a long, slender box. It was a box meant for her on our wedding night, but the sparks between us then were nonexistent. At the time, I hadn't wanted her to have it. I told myself she didn't deserve it, a commoner like her would have no idea what to do with something like it. But now, even if she has no idea what it means to wear it, the gesture won't go unnoticed. She'll love it; it was made for her, after all.

I reenter the bathroom to find her standing in the same spot, calculating my next move. She studies me, wondering what I'm up to, and I like the fact that I've kept her on her toes. I hold out the velvet box and she stares at it, eyes round, but keeps her hands to herself. Any other woman would've reached out instantly and taken it, the curiosity gotten the better of her. But April always waits until something is offered; that's something I've noticed. She never takes.

"It's yours," I say. "It's for you, I mean. Go ahead and open it."

She doesn't move. Her eyes stay centered on the box resting between my open palms, but she doesn't make a move. Her eyes flit to my face as she decides her next move, but I don't want to wait any longer. I reach forward and open the lid myself to expose a piece of jewelry inside worth more money than she has probably ever seen. It's a thin, white gold bracelet with two rows of diamonds. It has a break in between to show the skin underneath and I know without a doubt that it will look perfect on her wrist.

"Jackson," she says, barely able to speak. She presses a hand to her heart and blinks hard, staring at the piece of jewelry like it might burst into flames. "Jackson… what is this…"

"It's for you," I say again, then set the box down as I take the bracelet out very gently. "Hold out your wrist," I tell her.

"I couldn't," she says, shaking her head. "It's too much. It's so beautiful."

"Then you are most definitely deserving," I say subtly. "Come here, please."

She doesn't fight. Instead, she extends her arm and lets me clasp the bracelet onto her wrist, then turns her hand this way and that under the light to catch it. It sparkles brilliantly, reflecting off the amazement in her eyes. "It's the prettiest thing I've ever seen," she says, still awestruck as she looks back up at me. "Isn't it?"

Instead of the bracelet, my gaze catches on her face and the myriad of expressions she's allowing me privy to. Right now, her heart is visible and it's one of the only times she's bared it for me. "Yes," I say, though I'm not referencing the bracelet at all.

"How much… no, I don't want to know," she says, creasing her forehead while looking sincerely troubled. She worries her lower lip, contemplates for a moment, then looks back up. "Yes, I do. I need to know. How much did this cost?"

I clear my throat. I've always been taught that it's not polite to talk about money in gross amounts and it makes me uncomfortable to do so. Spewing numbers isn't attractive. I don't have to brag about the amount of money I have for people to know I'm wealthy. They know just by looking at me and that means much more. "The cost doesn't matter," I say. "What matters is that it makes you feel good, and gives you confidence for tonight."

I turn to walk away, but she grabs me by the forearm and flips me back around. "Jackson, I'm asking, as your wife, to tell me how much this bracelet costs," she says, very seriously.

I look her dead in the eyes when I say, "Thirty-eight thousand eight hundred dollars," I say, holding her hand with both of mine and lifting it so the bracelet hits the light. "And believe me, it's attractive to see that amount of money on you, April."

Her lips part in a silent gasp, eyes gone unblinking as the price sinks in. Her hand trembles in mine but she doesn't pull away, instead she grips my fingers tighter. "Just for tonight," she murmurs, slowly as if moving through a thick haze. "I'll only wear it tonight."

"It's yours," I say. "You decide how and when you wear it. And you should put your dress on, else we'll be late to our own party."

"My dress…" she says, looking to where it hangs in the closet. I look at her with scrutiny, wondering what the pensive tone is about. "That's kind of the reason why I'm standing here in a slip."

"What?" She takes a few steps towards it, brushing past me so I smell her perfume. It's not anything from her old life - it's deep and rich with differing notes. Le Bouquet de la Mariée by Guerlain, if I'm not mistaken. It suits her perfectly.

"It's too much, Jackson," she says, extending her arms but stopping before she can touch the fabric. It's like she's afraid to. "I can't wear this. It isn't me."

I turn around with an eyebrow cocked. "What, would you rather something from the mall?" I ask, lightheartedness underlying my tone.

She shoots me a look. "Stop it," she says. "You have to understand how it feels putting stuff like this on my body when I'm so used to…" She trails off, unfinishing as she shrugs. "I don't know. Rags sounds like an exaggeration, but it's really not."

"I keep telling you that this is what you should get used to now," I say, lifting the dress from its hanger.

"And you can tell me that until you're blue in the face," she quips. "It doesn't mean it'll sink in. My life flipped on its head over the course of one day. You can't expect me to adapt so quickly." Her face falters, chin dipping. "You have such high expectations of me, and… I'll never meet them."

"I'm not asking you to go above and beyond," I say. "But tonight, you have to wear this dress. This dress is expected at the gala with your beautiful body inside it." Her head lifts, eyes holding a bit of confusion and something else I can't read. "So please," I say. "For me. And for yourself, too. You'll feel different once it's on."

For once, she doesn't argue. She blinks a few times, takes a deep breath, then nods. "I need help then," she says. "It's complicated."

It's a design by Monique Lhuillier - a blush pink dress with a deep V and a low back, flutter sleeves, jewel decals and tulle under the skirt. In it, I assume she'll look like a modern day princess. That was my aim, anyway, when I picked it out.

"The slip won't work," I say, looking at her pointedly. "The neckline is too low. You'll have to remove it." I notice her hands are quivering as she goes to lift the feather-light material over her head. Soon, she's left in a bra and underwear, but still that's too much. I clear my throat and say, "The bra will have to go, too."

"Oh," she says, a little caught off guard.

"I won't look," I say, respecting her privacy though I've had my mouth on her before. I'm not sure where we stand in regard to that night, though, so I don't want to overstep. I direct my eyes to the floor as she disrobes, then hold the dress out for her to step into without lifting my gaze. Once it's over her shoulders, I spin her slowly and zip the short zipper in the back, spending a moment to let my eyes trail over her lightly freckled skin.

"So?" she says, voice wavering. "Is it bad? It's horrible."

"No," I say, turning her around. The view from the front takes my breath away - she's all slopes and curves and glowing skin. She looks nothing short of otherworldly, like something I've never seen. It takes a moment to remember how to breathe.

"Then what?" she says, on edge. "Say something."

"You look radiant," I say, unable to think of a better word or one that holds enough weight. "Stunning, absolutely stunning."

"Oh," she says, and the apples of her cheeks turn a color that comes close to that of the dress. "Thank you."

"How do you feel?" I ask, still having not torn my eyes away from her. She's a vision simply standing in the bathroom, so I can't imagine how she'll look juxtaposed next to the beautiful decor in the ballroom.

She sets her shoulders straight and lifts her chin to say, "I feel powerful."

…

As we make our entrance, April trembles. I keep one hand on the small of her back and stroke her skin in small circles to soothe her, but I'm not sure how well it works. We're well-versed in how tonight should look; we have to act more married than ever before. Everyone will be watching expectantly, and there's no room for mistake.

"Breathe, sweetheart," I say, speaking with my lips against to her ear.

"I'm trying," she says, pressing herself close.

"I'm going to introduce you to a few people," I say. "But after that, we can do whatever we want."

"Don't make me talk to them," she says, looking to me desperately. "I know I'll say something wrong. They'll know I'm not from… please, just don't make me say anything."

"I can do the talking, if that's what you want," I say, acting on impulse and reading up to stroke her cheek with the backs of my knuckles. If I'm not mistaken, she leans into my touch and relaxes because of it.

"Please."

So, I do. While speaking with other high-powered couples, I sense the nerves coming off of April in droves but know others can't. She smiles, shakes the hands that she needs to, and by the time it's over she's clearly and visibly relieved.

"You were wonderful," I tell her as we head towards the dance floor, hand-in-hand.

"Barely," she mutters, refusing as usual to accept the compliment.

"Do you remember the steps I taught you?" I ask, leading the way towards the middle.

"I think so."

The waltz starts and I take my wife in my arms. I hold both her hand and the dip of her waist, and she allows herself to dance close to me. I breathe in her scent, closing my eyes for a moment while soaking it in, and while in that position she turns her head to press a kiss to the corner of my jaw. I solidify the hand on her waist, rubbing it up and down, and she squeezes my opposite hand. I've never had such a strong nonverbal connection with another person before, but April and I are seemingly on an entirely different level. I know exactly what she's thinking; that was a kiss of thanks. I've done my best in grounding her tonight and she appreciates it. I appreciate much more than that - her presence has completely overwhelmed and overtaken me in a way I'm not familiar with. Being around her intimately has forced Pandora's box open and I feel my heart softening, even if by a fraction.

The song simultaneously lasts forever and not long enough. Once it's over, a friend of the family - Robert Stark - comes and taps me on the shoulder. "May I cut in?" he asks.

It takes me by surprise; this wasn't something I'd been expecting. In my mind's eye, I pictured April and I glued to each other's sides for the duration of the night; the thought of another man wanting a dance from her wasn't even on my radar. But it would be impolite to say no, no matter the look of subtle alarm in her eyes. "Of course," I say, then toss him a boyish grin. "Behave yourself, Stark. Remember, she's my wife."

"Avery, please," he says, laughing along.

I step off of the dance floor and watch my wisp of a wife dance with a man I've known for the majority of my life. He has no ill intentions, I know, but I grow antsy the longer April and I are apart. I'd gotten used to the feel of her body at my side and suddenly, I realize she wasn't the only one calmed by the two of us being together. I'd taken a sort of solace in it, too. I can't remember the last time I felt more at peace with being in the company of another rather than by myself.

When the song ends, I return to the dance floor and spin her out of Robert's grasp. She twirls against my chest gracefully, both hands flat on my lapel, and smiles up at me with those sparkling eyes. I trace an eyebrow with my pointer finger and give her a soft kiss, stomach jumping as our lips meet. I don't know when I'll feel comfortable enough to admit that she has me wrapped around her finger.

"Would you like a drink, Mrs. Avery?" I ask, my voice low and smooth.

"That would be lovely."

We make our way through the crowd and I pluck two champagne flutes off a passing tray and hand one to her. We clink our glasses together and make knowing eye contact, then take the first sip.

"Wow," she says, eyes widening as she swallows. "This tastes so good. This tastes… this is so amazing."

"It's Dom Pérignon Rosé," I say. "It should be amazing."

"Can I have another?" she says, but just as I'm about to tell her she doesn't have to ask she grabs a second and puts her empty glass in its place. She downs the liquid in one gulp, much to my amusement.

"April," I say, smirking a little. "Pace yourself."

"Sorry," she says, cheeks reddening as she sets down yet another empty glass and grabs a third, drinking it quickly. As soon as I blink, it's gone. "I've just never had anything like this."

"Any alcohol at all?" I ask, watching her discard yet another glass and pick up a fourth.

"Rarely," she says, and in that moment I realize this probably shouldn't go any further. Just as she lifts that fourth glass to her lips, I reach a hand out to swipe it from her, which causes about half of the flute to dribble down the front of her dress. "Jackson!" she exclaims.

"Shit," I say.

"You made me spill," she says, wobbling on her feet. She's tipsy, the champagne having gone straight to her head. I should've been more proactive and known better than to let her down glass after glass. One was enough. Nearly four was excessive. "On this beautiful, beautiful, beautiful dress! What am I gonna do now?!"

"We," I say, gently taking her arm and cupping it by the elbow. "Are going to go somewhere and fix this."

I lead her away from the party and the attention she was beginning to attract with her caterwauling and find a secluded room. Once the double doors shut, the air stills and the silence is nearly too much to bear.

"I thought we were going to a bathroom," she says. "Or a _powder_ room, as you wealthy people would say." She giggles at herself, thoroughly amused. "Powder room."

"I'm not putting water on this dress," I say, pulling out a handkerchief to dab at her front.

"Hey, you at least gotta take me to dinner first," she slurs, still laughing.

"Shush, you."

She snorts to try and quell her laughter, but it only makes her giggle harder. If she were anyone else, I'd be past the point of annoyed. But with April, I can't help but find this inebriated state a bit endearing. She never lets loose, and it's nice to see her do so.

I pull back and look at my handiwork, knowing that though I did the best I could, it still wasn't enough. The stain is visible and we both know it. "I still see it," she says, looking down at herself. Then, she sighs exaggeratedly and lets her shoulders crumple forward, stumbling for dramatic effect. Or maybe she's just that drunk, I can't be sure. "Now I'm really the hick of the party!" she wails. "I already stuck out in the first place, now I'm the poor moron who can't go five minutes without spilling on herself. Except _you_ spilled on me," she says, pointing a wobbly finger in my direction.

"I'm sorry," I say, and I really am.

"I didn't deserve this dress anyway," she says, closing her eyes and speaking too loudly. "You can dress me up, but you can't take me out. Point. Proven."

"Stop being degrading," I say. "It was a mistake. Not even your mistake."

"What do they say about putting lipstick on a pig?" she mumbles.

"April," I say, then pick up the flute of champagne where it had been resting on the piano beside us. "Look." In one swift motion, I dumb the last quarter of the liquid onto the front of my shirt, where it sticks to my collar and tie. "Now, I've spilled on the both of us."

Her eyes widen to the size of saucers as she stares at me in open-mouthed disbelief. "You…" she stammers, then lifts her eyes to meet mine. There's a beat before she breaks into musical laughter so intense that she doubles over. When she stands back up, she takes a deep breath and continues to smile. "I can't believe you just did that!" she shrieks.

"What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine," I say, in a bit of shock myself.

"You just quoted a marriage thing…" she says, leaning forward with sweet champagne breath. "Hubby."

I smirk a bit. "You use that moniker as if it's new information."

She leans forward with her elbows on the piano and I sit on the bench, eyes focused on her. With the way she's standing, the swells of her breasts spill over the V of the neckline and she looks absolutely delicious. I love the loose way about her, the twinkle in her eyes, the fluidity of the way she moves.

She flattens out over the piano with one arm outstretched and I take in the shape of her body and all that it is. She closes her eyes for a moment as she stretches, then opens them right back into mine, smile reappearing on her lips. "I always wanted to play the piano," she says. "I asked for piano lessons for years and years and years… but I stopped."

"Why'd you stop?" I ask.

"Realized I was rubbing salt in the wound. We couldn't afford it. I stopped asking for anything. Everything. All things."

My fingers poise atop the keys, familiar energy surging through my wrists as the memories flow inside my brain. I press my thumb down on middle C and the sound resonates throughout the cavernous room, ringing in my ear and reminding me of what I once was able to do. I wonder if I'm still able.

I shut off my brain and let my hands start moving over the keys, fingers pressing down of their own accord, moving up and down to capture the right octaves. And without my permission, a song comes from the notes and I'm playing an old favorite of my father's without consciously realizing it.

April straightens, watching my hands with intense fascination as they glide. She's still and quiet as I play, at least at first, totally gobsmacked by the music coming from my fingers. Then, a smile inches onto her face and she stands up even straighter and starts to sing.

"' _Cause baby there ain't no mountain high enough, ain't no valley low enough, ain't no river wide enough… to keep me from gettin' to you, babe._ "

If I weren't so practiced in the song, I might have frozen. Her voice is high and sweet, lilting and on perfect pitch. I play slowly and she matches my pace, never breaking her eyes from mine as she rests her chin in her hand and completes the song.

" _My love is alive way down in my heart, although we are miles apart. If you ever need a helpin' hand, I'll be there on the double just as fast as I can… don't you know that there ain't no mountain high enough, ain't no valley low enough, ain't no river wide enough… to keep me from gettin' to you, babe_."

When the music stops, she continues to stare. I almost don't know what to do with her eyes so set and a drunk smile on her face. If she were anyone else, I might stand up and kiss her, maybe even have my way with her on the piano. But this is April, and she is much more layered than that. This look makes me feel more, makes me feel like I am more.

"I didn't know you could play," she murmurs, lips moving just enough.

It's not an important talent or one that will get me anywhere. It's an old hobby, cultivated by someone who is long gone. It wasn't something that was necessary to tell her, but she's looking at me like I'm made of gold. "Well, that's my entire repertoire," I say. "So, enjoy."

She shakes her head a bit, looking at me with amusement. "Liar," she says, then slides in next to me on the bench. "Makes me wonder what else I don't know about you." She swipes her fingers over the keys; I listen to the small bumping sounds they make and get chills when she presses her pinky down on a high F. "There are things I haven't told you…" she trails off, not meeting my eyes now but instead concentrating on the ivories. "I really should… I should," she slurs. "But I just can't."

I watch her profile, studying the turn of her jaw, the light peach fuzz dusting her cheeks. I rest a hand low on her back, then lean in to press a kiss to her temple. I close my eyes and nuzzle her skin, relishing the beat of her heart under my lips. "Everyone has secrets," I say.

She doesn't look at me when she responds and I stay where I am, leaving no space between us. She takes a breath and her chests lifts, saying, "But they're not usually so painful."

…

Against my advice, April has two more flutes of champagne in the car because she insisted the effects from before had worn off and she was fine to have more. I didn't bother arguing because I knew I would lose, but given the fact that she's laughing at nothing and tripping over her feet on the way into the house is enough to let me know that I was right.

"Oops," she says, much too loudly. Then, she whispers it. "Oops! Antonio… he's gonna hear, then we'll be in _trooooouuu-ble_."

"Come on, let's get upstairs," I say, watching her hang onto the banister and throw her weight back as the earth seems to tilt on its axis. "We still have to pack. Our plane leaves early tomorrow."

"Pack…" she groans, tossing her head to the side. "Carry me."

"April."

She lays a hand on her forehead dramatically, thoroughly amused with herself. "Carry me over the threshold, husband," she says. "I demand you to!"

She's still speaking much too loud, and she was right before - Antonio might come out and an interaction with him is not something I want. So, I walk over and swiftly lift my wife into my arms to carry her up the stairs, one arm braced on her shoulder blades and the other tucked under her knees. She squeals with glee, one wrapped around me to steady herself, and lets her neck go slack as she laughs. "You are something else," I murmur, setting her down in our room.

She sits on the bed and takes her shoes off one by one, still careful with them even while drunk. Next, she stands to unzip her dress, stepping out to gently lie it across a chair like it's a living, breathing thing. Then, in just a pair of underwear and nothing else, she flops onto the bed with her arms extended wide and lets out the loudest sigh I've ever heard.

I close my eyes and suppress a smile. I think I might like drunk April, but it's still not right to look at her when she hasn't given me permission.

"Jackson," she says, as I'm in the process of getting my suit off.

"Yes," I say.

"That's 'yes, wife,' to you," she says, giggling at herself.

I catch my own eyes in the mirror to see that I'm grinning. I don't bother with wiping it away as I amend my response to say, "Yes, wife."

"Come here. I have a question for you."

In sweatpants now, I walk back into the bedroom thinking she might have more clothes on, but she doesn't. She sits up shirtless, tiny rolls on her belly, and shoots me a thoughtful expression. "You ever think about what happens when you die?" she asks.

"April," I say. "It's hard to concentrate when you're not wearing a top."

"Get over it," she groans, flopping back again. "I'm not putting one on. We're married and I'm naked. You should be celebrating, big boy."

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, wondering what this all means. "When you die, your organs shut down and your brain stops working. The heart ceases to pump-"

"Not like that," she says, fed up with me. "I mean, _after_ you die. Where do you go? Do you think there's a heaven?"

I stay quiet. This is a conversation I've never been comfortable having, and I have a feeling that if I don't talk, she'll continue. I'm not wrong.

"I used to think there was one," she says. "But now I'm not so sure. What's the proof, you know? And what about God? If He's supposed to be this great guy, how come he does such shitty things to people?" She rubs her face with her hands, probably smudging her makeup past the point of no return. "I don't get it."

"We should pack," I say, unzipping two suitcases and setting them on the bed next to her. "We're headed to The Maldives, so bring bathing suits and light clothes."

"You avoided my question," she says, bending her knees up and moving one to smack me in the arm. "You're too good at that." She sits up. "The Maldives, you said?"

"Yes," I say, already folding the clothes that will go inside my bag.

"Wow," she muses, then scoots off the bed to run shirtless into the bathroom, trotting while laughing at the same time. She comes back out with a small bag in tow, poised over her suitcase with a smug smile on her face. "You know what couples do on their _honeymoon_ …" she says, ruffling the tissue paper while keeping my attention. It takes every ounce of strength I have not to look at her breasts that are sitting right there, small, pert and perfect. She pulls something out of the bag and holds it up, putting it on display for me. When I look over, I see she's holding a small lingerie set that's white and lacy. "Calliope got this for me. Isn't it _gorgeous_?"

I swallow hard while looking at the small articles of clothing in her hand. There's a see-through bra with pretty detailing and a thong that doesn't look like it'll cover much at all with a tiny, ruffled skirt around the waist. Picturing April in it is enough. I have no idea how I'd react if I saw the outfit come alive in person. I might have to take her on the spot.

"Calliope gave you that?" I say.

She nods, wiggling it in the air while getting closer and closer to me. I don't back away and soon she's in my personal bubble with a cheesy grin on her face, still trying to get me to break. Her breasts graze my arm and either she doesn't notice or doesn't care, but her nipples harden with the contact and something of mine hardens, too. "Don't smile, Jackson," she says. "Whatever you do! Just don't smile!"

Finally, I turn to firmly hold her waist and she drops the playful exterior. With nothing left between us, she's standing in front of me nearly naked holding a sensual garment in her hands, staring at me with lust in her eyes. I can only assume I'm looking at her in the same manner.

"Jackson," she says, then reciprocates the gesture and wraps her arms around my waist. Now, her naked chest is flush against me and I wish more than anything else that I was shirtless. I'm dying to feel her directly against me, erect nipples grazing my skin. "You know, I didn't wanna fall for you," she says, swaying on her feet. It's clear she's still drunk. "I told myself I wouldn't. I said it again and again and again and _again_ … but I know it's gonna happen." She won't remember any of this. The bubbles have gone to her brain and loosened her lips; I can't believe I'm listening to this. This is something she wouldn't dream of admitting while sober.

I don't know how to respond. I'm not sure if I can. I touch her, though, swiping my thumb across her jawline and leaning forward to capture her lips. I move my hands to either side of her neck as I do and press my thumbs to the pocket of skin between her collarbones.

"Couples on their honeymoons…" she whispers, lips moving against mine. "Have sex."

"Mm-hmm," I murmur, eyes still closed as I kiss the corner of her mouth, cheek, then the space below her ear.

"I'm not a virgin, Jackson," she says, insisting on the fact yet again.

"Okay," I say.

"I'm not."

"Okay, April."

"I can prove it," she says.

"How?"

She takes in a quick breath that I feel beneath my thumbs before saying, "I don't know."

We kiss again and she pulls me forwards by two fistfuls of my shirt, signaling for me to lay overtop her body on the mattress. I push the suitcases to the floor and crawl over her, manipulating her in the way I want before crashing my lips to hers and kissing her senseless. She tastes like secrets and champagne, and I want to unlock everything within her. I've never felt this way about another person and I have no idea how to handle it. As a person, she's simultaneously too much and the only one who's ever satisfied me.

"Mmm…" she moans, grabbing my shirt again as I suck on her neck and lick the skin I've irritated. She pulls the material over my head as I continue to kiss her, then drags her nails across my naked skin. The act gives me goosebumps and forces me to bite her, which makes her whimper with surprise.

Her center is hot pressed against the top of my thigh, hips working in a subtle, but specific, rhythm. She spreads her fingers out as wide as she can over my back, trying to touch as much as possible, nails digging in when I suck on her earlobe.

"Oh, god," she breathes, the words nearly imperceptible as she lights herself on fire beneath me. "Oh, god, Jackson."

"That feel good?" I say, without lifting my head. "Tell me it feels good, baby."

"It does," she says, and I move a hand to her breast as a reward. I squeeze the supple flesh generously, stimulating the nipple with my thumb and rubbing in circles as it hardens. Unable to resist any longer, I pull away from her neck and cover her breast with my mouth, sucking on as much as I can while listening to her come unwound. Her voice shakes as she reaches above her head to grip the comforter, and her back lifts from the mattress as I gently bite her nipple and force it to a hardened peak. "Jesus!" she yelps.

I kiss my way down her sides, edging towards dangerous territory that I know I shouldn't go near tonight. It's a recipe for disaster, but so tempting. I decide that it won't hurt to do what we've already done since she clearly wants it, so I rub her over her underwear and watch her jolt in response.

"Oh!" she moans, eye shooting open as she widens her thighs. When she sees where I am below her waist, she uses her hands to cover the lower part of her stomach with her eyes still on me. There's something there that wasn't before, something that edges through the intoxication with shadows and sharp corners. It's so present that I'm sure she's going to tell me to stop, but she doesn't. She lets me continue, but keeps her hands in place and I don't try to move them. Instead, I bury my face between her thighs and cover her over her underwear, licking her slit in upward strokes as I dampen her already-soaked underwear. She curves her hips against my face, hands never moving as she gets closer to an orgasm, and I find her clit through her the fabric and suck on it the best I can.

She tastes amazing. I wish my mouth was on her actual skin, but for some reason that feels like something I'm not allowed to do. At least, not tonight. With April, life comes in steps and this was the next one. Anything further might have put her off, and I don't want to scare her.

"Jackson, shit!" she cries as it happens, thighs clamping around my ears. For a moment, the world goes quiet and all I can feel is her body trembling around me, and I smile against her heat.

When the come-down period starts, I lift my head and she doesn't waste any time. She reaches for the waistband of my sweatpants and starts to tug them down, but I don't let her. "Not tonight," I say, moving her wrists away. "You're too drunk."

"No, I'm not," she insists.

"Either way," I say. "You said you weren't ready."

"Jackson," she says. "I'm so turned on, and I want you. Don't you want me, too?"

I don't know how to answer that. She has the excuse of being drunk for being able to say such things, but I don't. "It's late," I say, kissing her lips while laying her back down. "We should get some sleep."

I hover over her, feeling her relax from what my lips are able to do. She kisses me back with fervor at first, but as we continue her lips grow slack and slow, then she stops kissing completely. I press my lips a few errant times to her cheeks, her nose, the side of her shoulder, before curling my body around hers and falling to sleep until morning.

…

"Oh, my god," is the first thing I hear when I wake up.

"Mmph," I grunt, pulling April closer. The alarm hasn't gone off yet, which means that it's incredibly early.

"My head," she groans. "My body. These underwear! I feel disgusting."

She unravels herself from my arms and I open my eyes to see her shedding the underwear and tossing them into the dirty clothes. I get a secret view of her ass before she finds a robe and pulls it on. "Come back," I murmur. "We still have time."

"I need a shower and about three hundred Ibuprofen," she says, disappearing into the bathroom.

Nerves flood through me as I think about how messy last night was. We shouldn't have done anything. It was a mistake. I shouldn't have let it go as far as it did. My mind is still whirring when April comes out of the bathroom, smelling fresh and clean with wet hair. "Last night," I say, getting right to the point.

"Yeah," she says, wringing her hair with a towel.

"Do you remember it?"

"You don't?" she says, sounding afraid.

"No, I do. I'm asking if you do because you were drunk on champagne."

Her face flushes. "I remember it, yes," she says. "Spilling on myself, listening to you play the piano, coming home and making out. You going down…" She glances to the dirty clothes hamper and something flashes across her eyes. "Yes, I remember."

"Okay," I say. "Good."

"Sorry," she says, unable to look at me. "I don't really drink. I did once, and the person I was with at the time told me I said a lot of stupid stuff. So please, if I said anything, don't take it seriously. And please, god, don't tell me what it was that I said."

I sit up, propped by an elbow, and nod. It's decided, then. I won't tell her. No matter if it was the truth or not that she spewed, I'll keep it for myself.

"We should pack," she says, pulling the robe tighter around her body. "We didn't quite finish last night." She looks at the lingerie set that she'd been teasing me with and tries to subtly shove it in a hidden pocket. She thinks I don't notice.

"Right," I say, getting out of bed to pick the suitcase back up. "Our plane leaves in two hours."


	7. Chapter 7

**APRIL**

I've never been on a plane before, no less a private plane with staff and luxury accommodations. As soon as we step inside, I'm transported into a different world. By now, I should be used to things like this given the mansion I live in, but I don't think these riches will ever cease to take my breath away.

"Oh, wow," I murmur, gazing around with wide eyes. There are six plush seats in groups of two that look comfortable enough to sleep in. There are a couple of sleek tables with charging stations, and a TV mounted on the wall - all the furniture in the room is a dark oak with cream cushioning.

"Do you like it?" Jackson asks, setting his messenger bag by the wall. "I had it custom-made last year."

"You _made_ this?" I ask, still surveying the area. I want to ask how much it cost, but I don't - for two reasons. One, because it's not very polite to talk about money in such plain terms and two, I don't think I want to know. It might make me sick. Or worse, it might make me run right off the plane.

"Yes," he says. "Floor plan, interior design, everything. All me."

"Don't be so humble," I say, shooting him a smirk.

I sit in a seat adjacent to the window and let an arm fall to hit the armrest, and the jewels adorning my wrist catch my eye as I do. Last night, I'd been too drunk to take the bracelet off and this morning I couldn't bear to part with it. I told myself it's because I don't trust Antonio around my things while we're away, but a part of me knows better. I like wearing it. I can't put my finger on why, but it makes me feel a certain way that I never have before. I don't care about status; it's not that. I think it has more to do with who gave it to me.

Jackson talks to the staff cordially before making an unexpected move and sitting right next to me. He must notice my surprise as I look over with furrowed eyebrows, because he laughs and looks quite amused with himself. "Am I not allowed to sit next to my wife?" he says, speaking lightly.

"No, you… you are," I say, the words coming out a bit clunky. "I just didn't think you would."

"Best seat in the house," he says, leaning back. "Right here."

I cross one leg over the other to angle my body towards the window, and as a stewardess comes by, Jackson plants a hand on my thigh. Habitually, he rubs his thumb in circles and continues to do so as she speaks to us. "Can I get you anything, Mr. Avery?" she asks, then looks to me. "Mrs. Avery?"

"A whiskey neat would be great," he says, but I look at him with narrowed eyes. "What?" he says.

"It's 9am," I say. "You're not having a whiskey neat at 9am."

A glint appears in his eyes as the corner of his lips pull up. He keeps eye contact for a drawn-out second, then turns back to the stewardess. "A ginger ale then, please, Mariah," he amends, then looks to me. "Better?"

"Yes," I say. "I'll have a glass of orange juice, if you have it," I say.

"And the Western breakfast, too," Jackson says, then asks me, "Are you hungry?"

I shrug and say, "Not really."

He grins and tells Mariah, "She'll have spinach and cheese quiche, please. She'll only end up stealing mine if she doesn't have her own."

I nudge him with my shoulder after Mariah leaves. "I'm not very hungry," I say.

"You say that now," he says. "But it'll be a different story once my plate gets here and suddenly becomes your plate."

I wave him off and as I do, his eyes catch on the bracelet. I watch him notice it, but he doesn't call attention to it. I'm glad, because I have no idea how I would go about explaining why I'm still wearing it. I haven't even convinced myself that it means nothing, so it's unlikely I'd be able to do as much for him.

We're quiet for a while before our breakfast arrives, which gives me time to think about last night and everything it entailed. I hadn't been lying this morning when I said that I don't remember what I said past a certain point. I remember the actions - there's no way I couldn't - but whatever I spewed verbally is lost. For all I know, I could've recited the Preamble or spoken in tongues. Although, I assume he would've let on by now had I done either of those things.

Surprisingly, I'd enjoyed myself at the gala when that was the last thing I thought would happen. I felt beautiful in that dress in a way I never have before, and it wasn't because of how expensive it was. I felt beautiful because of the way Jackson looked at me, held me, and kept me close. I felt beautiful because, no matter how many other eyes were on me in that ballroom, his never wavered. He didn't feel the need to compete with anyone else because he knew that I was there for him, and he for me. It was all either of us needed. We're getting pretty good at this whole 'being married' gig.

Part of me wants to ask him what I said, but I keep my mouth shut. I know for a fact it'll only be embarrassing and he'll probably only make up something ridiculous to tease me. I don't want to get into that right now, not when we've been having a relatively calm morning. And I don't want to taint the first day of our sham honeymoon with what came from my loose lips.

The apples of my cheeks flush as I remember his face between my thighs last night. What I drunkenly said is only half the battle - he made me come like I never have before and the intimacy level was off the charts. He didn't take my underwear off, but that was the closest to stripped and bare I've felt with someone in a long time. Thinking about it now, I'm not put off in the slightest. In fact, it's quite the opposite. While picturing his mouth wide open with my hands in his hair, my body buzzes with the desire for more.

We're quiet as we eat, but Jackson offers me intermittent forkfuls of his breakfast that I eagerly take. Mine is good and I finish every last bit, but he still lets me have his bacon and we nurse the same cup of orange juice after he decides water isn't enough.

After our plates are cleared and taken away, my eyes grow heavy. I can't get comfortable in the seat, though, because of how freezing I am. The blanket doesn't help; goosebumps still rise on my skin and rubbing my arms does nothing. "Are you cold?" Jackson asks, looking over after taking out his earbuds.

"I'm fine," I say, knees drawn up as I rub my eyes.

He smiles a bit. "You're tired," he says, extending an arm. "Did you know that it's common for a person's body to get cooler when they're sleepy? That's your system shutting down and moving slower. Come here, I'll keep you warm."

"No, you're busy," I say, curling further into myself.

"I'm not," he says, clicking the phone screen off and putting it to the side. "I'll go to sleep, too, if it'll make you feel better. I won't just sit here and watch you like you've done to me."

"I've never done that," I murmur.

"Come here, April," he says, nodding his head.

"You don't have to," I say.

"If you don't feel comfortable, I understand. But why are you acting like this is something new? You fall asleep with your cold toes on my shins every night. Yesterday, I made you come so hard that your legs were shaking."

I flush a brilliant red, I'm sure. "Be quiet," I hiss.

"Sorry," he says, though his smile tells me he's anything but remorseful that he said it. "All I'm saying is that you don't need to feel awkward. We have a long ride ahead, and I make an excellent pillow. But if you'd rather lean against the window and freeze to death - please, be my guest."

"Fine," I say, scooting closer.

"Well, don't do it just for my benefit," he says, and I can tell he's joking though I can't see his face anymore.

"Quiet," I say, resting a flat hand on his chest as I get situated. I pull my body close and he wraps an arm around me, tucking it in to rest a flat hand on the outside of my rib cage. I throw a leg over both of his and nestle my cheek over his heartbeat, lulled to a state of calmness by its steady thumping.

"There you go," he says, no longer joking but soothing instead. "Better?"

"Yeah," I say, growing sleepier by the second.

"Alright," he says. "Go to sleep, then."

I can't help the small smile that finds its way to my face. With my eyes closed and my body pressed against every inch of his, I let myself relax and fall asleep. I don't even dream; it's a restful nap that makes me feel refreshed upon waking up. I lift my head to look at him only to have his chin fall forward - it had been resting on my crown and without the support, goes boneless. He fell asleep, too.

Smirking, I reach up and touch his face with one finger, tracing the outline of his beard. I skim over the smooth surface of his slackened lips, then the angle of his strong nose. I sling that arm around his shoulders to pull myself closer, then kiss the corner of his mouth gently to wake him. I don't know why I do it, really. It feels right and I don't stop myself - it makes his eyelids flutter open almost instantly. "Mmm…" he groans. "Hey, sweet pea." He squeezes me, but I don't know if he means to. I don't stop him; in fact, I lean in further. "I didn't mean to fall asleep on top of you."

"I didn't mind," I whisper, taking note of the pet name and begging my face not to flush. I've never been called something like that in my life - something so soft, so endearing, so natural over everything. I'm not even sure if he heard himself say it.

"Oh, so now you don't mind," he says, swiping my hair away from my forehead so he can kiss it. "When before, I basically had to coerce you over here."

"I feel better now. I got my beauty rest," I say.

He smiles, eyes still bleary. "You don't need rest for that," he says, then pulls me close by the back of my neck to plant a soft, sleepy kiss to my lips. My heart pounds double-time; I can't believe how married we're acting, how intimate all of this is. It's potentially even more intimate than last night, when his tongue was almost inside me.

"Jackson," I say, unable to get my mind to slow down in any capacity.

He closes his eyes and leans his head back again, returning to a state of relaxation as he says, "Hmm."

I don't know why I put the words out there instead of just leaving it unspoken. I know it's only going to make things awkward, but I can't leave it. It's too confusing to just leave. "Did you mean to call me that?" For some reason, I can't get the nickname past my lips - it doesn't slip out in the easy way it came for him.

"Call you what?" he asks.

"Sweet pea," I murmur, nearly whispering.

His eyes come open and he studies me, but I can't look at his face. I shouldn't have said anything. We're married, we have to act like it. We're around people who are unfamiliar with our situation. "Did you not like it?" he asks. "If you didn't, I'll stop. I won't do it again."

"No, no… I… I just didn't know if you meant to," I stammer, wringing my hands.

"I did," he says.

"Oh."

"Should I not have?"

I shake my head quickly, chewing the inside of my lip. "No, it was good."

"Alright."

"Why, though?" I ask, even though my brain is shouting at me to drop the subject and just go along to get along.

"I don't know. It just came out, I guess."

"Oh," I say again. "Okay."

I close my mouth and rest my head on his chest again. It takes him a minute to loosen up, but before long that same arm comes around to envelop me in and keep me close. I shut my eyes, but I know I won't be able to fall asleep again.

…

When we arrive at our resort, I can't seem to catch my breath. "Welcome to Huvafen Fushi Maldives," a tall, kind man says. "Please, enjoy your stay."

He leaves us at the head of a long dock that leads to our private cabana, but my feet won't move. Jackson's hand is on the small of my back as he stands beside me, taking it all in as well.

"Oh, my god," I murmur, blinking against the bright afternoon sun. I have no idea what time it is back home, but right now that doesn't matter. We're in a completely different world, one that's all our own. I've never been somewhere so beautiful. The water is unbelievable - in some places it's a deep blue and in others so clear I can count the grains of white sand on the bottom. The sky is crystalline and the air is pure, my lungs have never felt so full. I'm alive and seemingly realizing it for the first time.

"Gorgeous, isn't it," Jackson says, drawing me in a bit tighter to his side.

"Yes," I say, one hand to my heart. "I… I can't believe it. It doesn't seem real."

"It's very real," he says. "Should we go see our room?"

"One second," I say, and close my eyes for a moment. I let the sun soak into my skin, feel how firmly my feet are planted into the ground, and take a deep breath. I want to remember this moment because I've never had anything like it and I know I won't get something like it again.

"We have all week," he says, and drops an unexpected kiss on my cheek. "You don't have to take everything in right this moment."

I open my eyes and look at him. His eyes are the same color as the water and he seems so much lighter than he does at home, like a different person. Because of this, an involuntary smile makes my lips twitch until the grin takes over my whole face, and I slowly twine my arms around his neck. "Thank you," I say. "For bringing me here. For showing me this. I would've never been able to see something like this had you not…"

"Shh…" he says, then kisses me swiftly. "You're welcome, but you don't need to thank me. You're an Avery; you're my wife. Only the best."

My heart thumps with the gravity of his words and actions. Who are we pretending for? Is there a chance that I really have feelings for him, and he for me? I'm not so stupid as to deny the butterflies he gives me when we kiss and touch or the way he's able to melt me in the palm of his hand. He was attractive before, but something changed between us at the gala. The feelings went deeper. I saw him as a real person for the first time, true and genuine. He showed me a side of himself I don't think anyone else has seen, and that's what has put me on unsteady ground. I don't know how to catch my footing, and I don't know if I should.

The room is immaculate, of course, but I'm not concerned with what's inside. Rather, I'm enamored with the view. I drop everything and walk to the balcony in a white sundress that I changed into, and rest my forearms on the clear glass half-wall that separates us and miles and miles of ocean. As far as I can see, there's nothing else. I had no idea a place like this existed. In the same world where my family and I lived in a shack and could barely make rent, extravagant places like this sit across the sea. I can't wrap my head around it - I feel like a new person here, away from the skin I shed in Chicago.

Before long, a pair of strong arms wrap around my waist from behind and I feel Jackson's lips on my neck. I smile to myself, dipping my chin shyly, and he holds me even closer. "Can't stop staring?" he murmurs, mouth moving over my pulse point.

He seems like a new person here, too. When it was called for, he'd keep a hand on me or kiss me in front of his people. But now, there's no one around. It's only us. It reminds me of the confusing nights in our room - the two times we got sexual for no reason - but at the same time, it's nothing like that. It's not so much intimacy out of pure need, it's because he wants to. He's never been this handsy, this soft and sweet, and I like it. So much, that I might allow myself to reciprocate.

"It's just unbelievable," I say, eyes still on the horizon.

He kisses the corner of my jaw and flattens his hands over my stomach. "I love how much you love it," he says. "I worked hard with our travel advisor going over destinations that would amaze you." He pauses for a moment to kiss the top of my shoulder all the way to where it rounds into my arm. "So, are you amazed?"

"Yes," I say, fingers dancing over the backs of his sturdy hands.

"Good."

"Had you been here before?" I ask, swaying with him as he moves us from side to side.

"Never," he says. "I wanted our first time to be together."

"So, what do you think?" I say.

"It's beautiful," he says, and I feel him smile. "But right now, you're a little heavier on my mind."

"I don't know how you could be thinking about anything but this view," I say.

"I'll look at the view sooner or later," he says, swiping my hair to one side so he can press open-mouthed kisses to the slope of my neck. My core lights up, body tingling, but I don't know what to do with those feelings. In the daylight, they seem out-of-place and almost wrong. His hands slip a bit lower, fingers wide over my lower belly, but I jolt away as they run over the sensitive spot below the hem of my underwear. I untangle myself from him and make an apologetic sound, and it takes him a moment to recover. "April," he says, walking around me to lean on the half-wall. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," I say, compulsively tucking my hair behind my ears. The breeze blows against the cool spots on my neck where his saliva still dries.

His expression is gentle with no pretense. I'm not used to seeing him like this; I don't really know how to handle it. "Why do you shy away whenever I go near your stomach?" he asks. "My hands, my mouth, anything. I know there must be a reason. Will you tell me what it is?"

My mouth instantly goes dry and I resist the urge to cover my belly with my hands. I force a smile so fake it makes my cheeks hurt, and I have no doubt he can see right through me. Anyone could, at this point. "My stomach just hurts," I say, answering only a fraction of the question. "Do you think we could get something to eat?"

He eyes me warily but eventually nods. When he turns around and leads the way back into the cabana, I let out a long sigh of relief.

…

The next day, we go on a long cultural tour that spans across a few of the islands. I wear a loose, flowy dress and a beach hat and almost never let go of Jackson's hand. We're happy today, listening to the tour guide and enjoying the company of the other people in our group. I soak up the information I'm taught, enthralled by all of it. I feel Jackson's eyes on me more than once, watching me experience new things in a way I was never able to before.

For dinner, we sit on the white sand and eat sushi. I've never had sushi before, but I'm told it's the freshest in the world and after I taste it, I'll never be satisfied with anything else. My eyes nearly bug out of my head at how delicious it is, and I stuff myself to the brim with the most delicious food I've ever eaten.

"It's nice to see you eating," Jackson says, softness in his eyes. The sun warmed his skin today as I'm sure it's done for mine.

"It's so good," I say, taking a sip of the delicious wine. "Everything is… just amazing. I don't know how so many amazing things can be in one place."

His eyes shine when he says, "I know."

He's so much looser here, so much more carefree. The rigidity has left him and he's less intimidating, warmer and more approachable. He even sleeps better, wide open on the bed instead of curled into himself or rested on his stomach. I want to stay here forever with him.

As we make our way back to our cabana, a hotel clerk stops us with a basket in hand. "For the happy newlyweds," she says, and hurries away before Jackson can look to see what's inside.

Once she's gone, he takes a peek and laughs lightly in a way I've never heard him do before. "Well, they don't waste time with subtlety," he says, shoulders bouncing.

"What?" I say. "What is it?"

He turns it to show me and inside I see numerous boxes of condoms, lubrication jelly, furry handcuffs, a blindfold, and two robes. "Oh," I say, daring to look up and meet his eyes.

"When they said that they supply every amenity, I guess they weren't exaggerating," he says, holding the basket with one hand as the other arm winds around my shoulders.

We get inside our cabana and I can't stop thinking. But instead of bad, intrusive thoughts, this time they're good ones. We're on our honeymoon. We might actually have feelings for one another in the most beautiful place in the world. I'm feeling braver than I have in a long time; I don't want to act the same way I do back in Chicago. I want this to feel different, be different. I want to make something of this - make something of us.

That doesn't mean I'm not nervous, because I am. But I'm going to push past my nerves and make this night different than any preceding. He's beginning to undress for bed when I lay a hand in the middle of his shoulder blades to catch his attention, saying, "Wait here?"

"Where are you going?" he says, turning around with his hands still on the buttons of his shirt.

"The bathroom," I say, digging in my suitcase for something I know I packed. In the dim light, he doesn't see me pull it out and bunch both pieces in one hand, hiding them from view. "I'll be right out. Just… just wait right there, okay?"

"Okay…"

I shut the door to the bathroom and lock it for good measure, slowly pulling my flowy dress over my head to hang it by the window. Carefully, I step into the white, lacy long and adjust it on my hips, not knowing how to feel about the fact that there's nothing much there at all. I try not to think about it as I clasp the bra and pull it down around my ribs, running my hands over the cups that aren't cups at all, only sheaths of lace. I'm scared to do it, but I look in the mirror before heading back out. I raise my eyebrows, surprised at the sight, and fluff my hair. I don't recognize myself in a getup like this. It's sexy, and I've never been sexy a day in my life. I turn and skim my hands down my sides, staring at my nipples straining through the translucent fabric and the swell of my ass under the tiny, frilly skirt. This is a lot. This is too much. But either way, I unlock the door and step into the room where I told Jackson to wait.

I feel the breeze instantly, blowing gently from the open French doors. I keep my eyes closed at first, because I feel so exposed and I don't want to see the look on his face. What if I misread the situation and this wasn't what he was thinking? I'm going to look like a giant idiot. The biggest fool on the planet.

"April," he says, and there's something different about his voice. It's deeper, huskier, sexier. "Open your eyes." I do as he says and see him sitting on the edge of the bed, knees spread. "Come here." I take slow steps across the cool hardwood to stand between his legs, and he tips his chin up to look at me. "What does this mean?" he asks, eyes flitting between both of mine.

"I…" I say, wanting to touch him but not knowing how. "I… I… I want to have sex tonight," I say. "If that's something you want, too."

He smiles when he says, "Yes. Oh god, yes."

I grin, too, heart lightening because of the eager expression he's wearing. I must be doing something right. "Is this too much?" I ask, looking down at the lingerie I never thought I'd be brave enough to wear.

"It's perfect," he says, finally reaching out to grab me by the hips. His thumbs press against the bones on the front and the rest of his fingers spread out over my ass, and I let my hands drop to his shoulders. "You're so goddamn beautiful, April, and I swear, you don't even know it."

"You think I'm beautiful?" I ask, and it's genuine. I know that he's said it a few times when I'm dressed up in expensive clothes, but I wasn't sure if the words held weight. I've never been called beautiful before by anyone other than my little sisters. And this is much, much different.

"I think you're gorgeous," he says, leaning forward to press his lips to the apex of my ribs. "You remind me of a painting. Something by Vermeer or Degas." I don't know who those people are, but the way he says their names is so beautiful that it doesn't matter. The words melt on his tongue and transfer to my skin as he kisses me, closing his eyes as he brands me.

He pulls me onto his lap to straddle him, my breasts at face-level. With his hands wide over my back, he presses his face between them and closes his eyes, nails scratching along my spine while covering the swells with his lips. I allow my eyes to close with feeling, lifting higher onto my knees to press our torsos flush together. He licks the middle of my breastbone and I shudder because of it, then he moves to the left to cover my nipple with his mouth over the thin lace. He sucks on it, my small breast easily fitting in his mouth, and looks up at me as he does. The eye contact sends electricity between my legs - enough to shock me and make my whole body quiver. "That feels amazing," I whisper, moving to run my fingers through his hair.

He smiles against my chest, shifting his grip to my ass where he takes two firm handfuls. I gasp, chest lifting, and his fingers dig in even further. He kneads it slowly, sucking at the same rate, and I let my neck go slack as I toss my head to one side and get lost in the sensations. I've never been touched like this, worshiped like this. My blood is pumping so hard that I'm sure he can feel it through the skin, and before I have any say in the matter my hips start grinding of their own accord, searching for friction. He helps them along by pulling my ass in and scooping upwards, bringing my pelvis to his torso and keeping it there. His mouth still hasn't left my breast and now his teeth worry my nipple, soaking the material completely through. When he moves away to lay me down and the cold air hits it, I suck in air through my teeth and close my eyes.

"Just look at you," he says, stripping down to his boxer briefs. They're tight and black, made by Saint Laurent. "God, look at you."

I don't know what to say in response, so I don't say anything. He hovers over me and just looks at my face for a moment, then descends to press his lips to mine. I hold onto the kiss for a long moment, parting my lips so his tongue will slip inside, then suck on the tip. One of his hands flies to my waist when I do that, massaging the skin roughly. When he pulls away, he takes my lower lip until it pops back into place with a soft, wet sound.

He takes my bra off next, slow as ever. He undoes the clasp masterfully with one hand, then drops sweet kisses all around my breasts and nipples. The buds strain from his touch and the cool air, even more so when he rubs his palm over them both and sucks on the skin surrounding to leave hickeys. He smiles to himself as he goes, thoroughly pleased, and I close my eyes and let him do what he wants. It feels too good to think, too good to do anything but lie here and let him take me to heaven.

He pays attention to my breasts for a long time, moving south after he's finished and my nipples are wet and painfully hard. My body has gone completely slack, my panties surely soaked through, and I can barely breathe. So, I don't have the wherewithal to guide him elsewhere when his mouth finds the skin below my belly button and he kisses my scar.

I gasp at first, that's always my initial reaction whenever he goes near it. I used to react that way even when fabric touched it, but I've since gotten over that. It's not extremely sensitive anymore, but as his lips and tongue glaze over it, it sends sparks behind my eyelids and makes me see stars. No one has ever touched it, no less touched it like that. No one has ever even seen it. And here he is, treating it like it's something beautiful. I'm not sure why, but I don't stop him. I let him continue and push every bad thought out of my head and concentrate solely on how good it feels, how attentive he's being, and the new person I am here in the Maldives. I can let go a little bit. I can let him in if I want to. All that's stopping me is myself.

I run my fingers over his head and he looks up with something behind his eyes that I can't quite read. "Is this okay?" he asks, running his nose along the low waistband of my underwear.

"Yeah," I breathe, then lift my hips so he can get the underwear off. It's not lost on me that this is the first time they've come off around him - the first time he got me off was over my shorts, the second over my panties. And now, I'm completely naked and bare of anything to hide behind.

He kisses the tops of my thighs and the dip of my pelvic bone, spreading my legs so he can fit easily between them. I'm a little tense - no one's ever done this for me before - and I can't stop watching him. "Relax," he says, and when he speaks, his breath curls against my most intimate place. Spotting my reaction, he puckers his lips and blows a stream of cool air over my sex, making me jerk and twitch. "I'm gonna make you feel good," he tells me.

I hadn't known what to expect when he opened his mouth on me. But when he does, all of my muscles go slack and I allow him to widen my thighs further, putting no space at all between my core and his face. He even stimulates me with his nose and chin, and the way his facial hair feels on the sensitive skin of my inner thighs is enough to put me close to the edge. I keep one hand on his head and the other on my breast as he pushes his tongue inside me as deep as it will go.

"You're so quiet," he says, lifting up for only a minute. It's a minute too long though, and I lift my hips to tell him where I want him. He smirks and pushes them back down, kissing my thighs again as he gets resettled.

"It feels so good, I… I just don't know what I'm supposed to say," I admit.

"You don't have to say anything," he tells me. "But you can let loose. Make whatever sounds you want. I can tell by now when you're resisting."

I do as he says, cutting that final string. When he resumes what he'd been doing and sucks my clit between his lips, I open my mouth as my eyes roll back and let out the longest, filthiest sounding moan I've ever heard. I had no idea something like that could come from me. "Oh, god, baby," I moan, yanking on his curls with one hand. He doesn't stop, he doesn't slow down, he only goes harder. He makes steady eye contact while he slowly sucks on my clit, surprising me with two fingers inside me to stroke my g-spot. "Oh my god!" I whimper, knees snapping up to a bent position. He grabs onto my hips and pulls me back to his mouth, not letting me escape, and ravages me. He pushes his fingers in more roughly and sucks with all he's got, and before either of us can fully take it in, I scream because of how powerful my orgasm is. "Shit, Jackson!" I shout, and even then he doesn't stop. He does something I had no idea was possible - he gives me another orgasm right after the first, and my vision goes black at the corners while it pulses through my body in waves, rendering me speechless and virtually immobile.

"Fuck," he breathes, biting small sections of my skin. My core is so stimulated that it's nearly numb and I need time to catch my breath. "You are fucking amazing," he says, still kissing my middle.

"You're so good," I pant, both hands flat on my sweaty forehead. "Oh, my god."

He chuckles, licking a circle around my belly button and making me twitch. "I think this might be the first time you haven't had something to say," he murmurs.

"I'll think of something," I say, petting his hair. "When my brain comes back."

"Let it takes its time," he says, moving his lips to the round of my breast. When he picks his head up, he traces it with his pointer finger and locks eyes with me, and in that moment we share the heaviest eye contact we've had yet. His expression is soft and melting and it only makes me feel the same.

"Come here," I say, pulling him by the shoulders so his nearly-naked body completely overlaps my totally-naked one. He slips one leg between both of mine and I wrap the other around his waist to keep him close, lifting my hips to bump them against his. He's hard, but he doesn't rush. I'm ready, though, and I let him know by skimming one hand down his side and snapping the band of his underwear, which makes him smile against my lips.

"You want this?" he asks, pushing himself up to look at my face.

"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, I do."

"You're sure?" he says.

"Do you have those condoms?" He nods and reaches for the basket, pulling out a long string of them. "Then yes," I answer.

When his underwear come off, I try and pretend like I'm not staring at the impressive size of what's between his legs. I've only seen one penis in person, and it was absolutely nothing like this one. Without thinking or policing myself, I reach out and take it in one hand, gripping with confidence and looking up to meet his eyes. "Shit," he hisses, clenching the fist that isn't holding onto the condom.

"Let me put it on," I say. "And can I be on top?"

"Sure," he says, then maneuvers to lay on his back. His penis sticks straight up and I can't help but feel proud that I was the one to get him to this heightened state of arousal. I straddle his thighs and rest my weight down, swiping a hand between my legs to gather some of the leftover wetness - using it to lubricate his dick as I pump it, just warming him up. "Fuck," he groans, watching me with interest. Then, surprising him, I bend in half and take the tip in my mouth, swirling my tongue around the head as I taste him for the first time. "Jesus, April."

I smile when I come up, finally unrolling the condom down the length of him. He twitches as I go, moving slowly as my fingertips dance over the smooth skin. When it's wrapped, I scoot forward on my knees and brace my palms on his chest before sinking down onto him. I let my eyes flutter closed as I get used to the feeling - I haven't had sex in a long time, and the last time I did there was a significant size difference. I need a minute to get used to how this feels, how he feels. I spread my thighs wide and he solidifies his grip on my hips, pads of his fingers digging in to create little white marks in their wake. He closes his eyes and groans, saying, "You feel so fucking good."

I let my head drop, hair falling like a curtain on either side of my face. He lets go of my hips to push it behind my shoulders, curling it behind my ears before pulling me down by the base of my neck to kiss me. "Oh, god," I moan, sparked by the spot he's able to hit inside me when I bend that way. "Oh, shit."

"Move, baby," he says, skimming his hands up my stomach to hold my breasts tight. He drags his thumbs over the nipples, making me whimper and lean forward again to devour his lips. I arch my back and put my breasts near his face, and he pulls me down by the shoulder blades in order to get them in his mouth.

I rotate my hips in a figure-8 pattern, hearing the wet sounds between us as I start to move. He sits up quickly, catching my lower back so I don't fall, and rests against the headboard so I'm grinding against his lap, face-to-face. He looks deep into my eyes and kisses me hard, and I'm breathless when he pulls away. I can't handle much more of this deep and meaningful eye contact, so I tuck my face into his neck and lick the hot skin, the moisture from my saliva joining that of his light perspiration. I start to move my hips faster, slamming them against his at a rate I didn't know I was capable of, and he sinks his nails into my spine because of it. "Fuck!" I whimper, voice shaking as my core pulses. I'm not ready to come yet, I want to drag this out further, so I start to move slower and even out my breathing. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, draping my arms over his shoulders as I make sure each thrust is swift and calculated. I can feel every ridge of him even through the condom, and I don't want this to end.

He grips my shoulders after winding his arms around my back and holds on tight. We fall into a steady rhythm where even our moans match up and if we were in a normal hotel room, the neighbors would have complained by now.

When I lift up to press my forehead against his, I close my eyes and know I want it to happen soon. I jerk my hips more powerfully and slip a hand between our bodies only to have him bat it away and replace it with his own, fingers spreading my lips to rub intense circles over my clit. As he does that, I bare my teeth and open my eyes wide, tossing my head back to expose my neck and moan. He takes advantage of the skin before him and closes his lips on my throat, sucking hard as my orgasm starts and my whole body vibrates around his.

"God fuckin' damn," he growls, tossing me onto my back as it's still happening. He takes one knee and pushes it up near my face, and I don't try and hold back as he intensifies my orgasm with his own. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull his face close, sloppily dropping kisses anywhere I can reach and hoping some reach his mouth.

Both of us go slack once it's over, Jackson collapsing on top of me a sweaty mess. I wrap my limbs around him, kissing the side of his face and the tops of his shoulders, skimming my feet up and down his calves as he softens inside me.

"Fuck," he murmurs after a few moments pass. "That was so good, sweet pea."

The nickname. It almost does more to me than the sex did. Almost. "I know," I breathe, chest still heaving. I pat his back and whisper right into his ear, "You're crushing me, baby."

"Oh," he says, rolling off the bed completely. He kisses me softly on the forehead and says, "I have to go take care of the condom. Don't move."

"Okay," I say, smiling.

"No, seriously," he says. "When I come back, don't look any different than you look right now."

I laugh and cover my face bashfully, but nod anyway. He's only gone for a handful of seconds before hurrying back onto the bed, pulling me into his arms and against his chest. For a while, we just lie there and I skim my nails over his side and feel goosebumps rise in their wake. Then, I break the silence to say, "I loved that."

His chest swells with what I think is probably pride. "Yeah?" he says, and it's the first time he's ever sounded unsure in the slightest. It comes to my attention that he really wanted to please me; this wasn't only about his pleasure, mine mattered just as much if not more.

"Yes," I say, tucking my head under his chin with the intent of falling asleep.

He has other plans, though. I know it when he takes a big breath in and weaves his fingers through my hair, angling my head so he can look right into my eyes. I wonder when that will stop catching me off guard. "I have something I want to tell you," he says, blinking slowly. Right now, he's wide open. All of his walls are down. I unfold myself from his body and lie on my back, and instantly one of his hands goes to my stomach to rest flat. "I've never told anyone before, but…" He sighs. "It's different with you. I trust you deeply, April."

My heart twists as I realize how rare it is for him to say something like that. During the first part of our marriage, I would've never thought he'd say it to me. "Okay," I say, a hand overlapping his on my belly. "Tell me."

He smiles a bit. "It's not something bad," he says. "I'm making it seem like it is, but it's not. It's just… a personal secret that no one knows. Aside from my mother, that is, but she doesn't approve. She never has. And my father took it with him to the grave." I nod him along, encouraging him with my eyes. "As you know, he was a wonderful painter," Jackson says. "It was his life's work. But what you don't know is that he passed the craft down to me."

My eyes widen as what he says settles in. "You… you paint?" I ask.

He nods. "I know it seems silly to keep something like that as a secret. And it's not just painting - I also sculpt, draw, play the piano, the violin, and a number of other instruments. Art is where I was able to find myself when he was alive, but I've had a hard time going back to it since he passed away. When I played for you at the gala, that was the first time I'd touched the keys since I was 14." He tucks my hair behind my ear and touches the tip of my nose with his. "I want to use part of the other half of the inheritance to fund the arts of Chicago Public Schools," he says. "That's what my mother doesn't approve of. But… you, you're the first person I've come across in my life who would understand."

I'm not sure what I can say to fill this poignant silence, so I do what feels right. I hold one side of his face and kiss him with everything I have, hoping the emotions filter through our lips. When I pull away, my eyes burn with tears. "You're an amazing person, Jackson," I whisper, voice hoarse.

He smiles and it lights up his entire face. "You don't think it's silly?"

I shake my head vehemently. "I think it's the furthest thing from silly. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard." I run my fingers over his beard, listening to the scratchy sound that follows. "I think you should start painting again."

He kisses me slow - so full of raw feeling that it forces me to moan against his lips. "I have ideas again," he says. "Every time I see you, I get all these ideas."

"You need to paint them," I say, tickling his arm while weaving one foot between both of his ankles.

"I will," he says. "April, thank you."

"You don't need to thank me," I say. "I'm your wife."

He smiles and kisses my cheek, then continues to rub my belly. He seems lighter with the secret off of his shoulders, but I don't feel any less weighed down. It's not that I think he expects my secret told, but this feels like a situation where we should fairly trade. I don't want to make it seem like I'm holding back, but I'm also not ready to make what I have to hide common knowledge.

"I… um…" I clear my throat. "You asked about my scar the other day," I say. He doesn't respond, but I know he's listening in rapture. His silence says it all. "Um…" I blink hard. "It's from a botched surgery. Appendix surgery. I was like, 9. We didn't have the money for a legitimate procedure from a doctor in practice, so I had to have it done illegally. It's… I guess I'm ashamed about it, and I don't want people to know. Especially you. You have all these nice things and the fact that I couldn't even afford to get something done that was a bodily emergency… it's embarrassing. It's shameful."

At least some of that is true. I'm not lying when I say the last person I want to know about it is him. Only three people in the world are privy to my actual secret; one of them being myself. Another being my mom, and the third is one who may as well be dead. I don't know if I'll ever be able to unearth it to anyone else, even Jackson. Even Jackson, who holds my heart in his hands.

"Oh, god," he says, propping himself up on an elbow. He frames my face and looks at me gently with an expression I don't deserve. The lie makes me feel sick. I shouldn't have said it. I shouldn't have said anything at all. I didn't need to; I didn't need to fill that space, but I did. I chose to fill it with a lie that I can't take back. "April, that's nothing to feel ashamed over. You don't have to keep things about your life from me because you think I'd judge you. I'm not gonna do that."

"Not now," I say.

"I'm sorry," he says, immediately. "I was wrong to treat you in the way I did. I… things were different then. _I_ was different. You've done so much for me in such a short amount of time. I'll always be indebted to you for that."

"You're not indebted to me for anything," I mutter.

He's quiet before pressing a kiss to my ear and speaking again. "There's one more thing you need to know," he says. "As long as we're putting things out in the open." He pauses for a long time before continuing. I almost don't think he's going to, but then he gathers his gumption and finishes the thought. "In order to receive the second half of my inheritance, I need to produce an heir." A thick patch of staticky, moldable silence passes. I don't even blink. "In other words, we need to have a baby, April."

I don't think before I answer. I just open my mouth without taking a breath and say, "No."


	8. Chapter 8

**JACKSON**

The one-syllable word that comes from April's mouth isn't loud, but it resounds throughout the room as if she'd dropped a bomb. It shifts the atmosphere and knocks me off my axis; it definitely wasn't what I expected to hear. I wasn't necessarily looking for an all-encompassing 'yes,' but a downright refusal was nowhere in my realm of thought. I knew it come as a shock to her, but I thought there would be questions to follow. Not a one-word response.

I blink hard and continue to stare at her face. She's unmoving, maybe not even breathing. She's stubborn, I'm aware, but I thought it would be different - telling her here. We've acted in a way that's so unlike how we were back home and I was beginning to enjoy it. I don't feel so tied down, so obligated to behave a certain way. I'm free in a way I'm not in Chicago. I thought telling her here would ensure a more positive reaction, or at least a conducive environment in which we could discuss things. She doesn't seem to want a conversation, though - I can tell by the look in her eyes. The expression is flighty; irises darting every which way while unable to land on my face. Things are no longer the way they were just moments ago.

I open my mouth to try and get to the bottom of it, though. But instead of letting me speak, she fills the space instead. "I'm not ready," she says, the words tumbling from her mouth without any control. "I'm just not ready, I'm so young," she continues. "I'm only 21, Jackson. Do you know how much that is to expect of me?" She shakes her head and makes a sound of discontentment. "This marriage isn't even real; how can you expect me to shoulder something like that?"

There's a pang in my chest that leaves behind a lingering ache. I know better than anyone else that our marriage wasn't serendipity or dependent on love or mutual attraction - it was arranged out of monetary need alone. I was starting to think it could be molded into something else and that we were on our way there, but she just made it blatantly clear that thought process is wrong. "You agreed to it," I say, perturbed. "You agreed to our marriage, and you've enjoyed sitting pretty, haven't you?" I pinch my lips and feel my jaw tighten, a surefire sign that my anger is rising. She's still under me, though, naked and vulnerable. She's made no move to sit up.

"I guess I didn't know what I was agreeing to," she says, swiping a bit of hair out of her eyes. "You made sure that I didn't."

My stomach churns hearing her talk like that. I thought we were done with this fight. I thought we'd surpassed arguing over this topic, but I suppose I was wrong. Maybe this is something we'll always revolve around. It'll be the underlying topic of our marriage that eventually rips us to shreds. Though, that can't happen. A divorce is nowhere in the cards for us. "Well, if you want to see any of the money in the second half of the inheritance, it has to happen someday," I say. "I'm willing to wait - the contract is willing to wait as well."

"It doesn't matter how long you wait," she says, lifting my hands away from her body. I hadn't realized I'd still been touching her; it's turned into something of a habit. "I won't ever be ready. I'm never having kids, Jackson."

I squint and my lips part a bit, floored and confused. "Why?" I ask.

She sits up, covering her chest with both hands as if I'm not allowed to see her anymore. It doesn't matter, I've already memorized her, but I don't like the fact that she no longer feels comfortable. I can only hope that she doesn't regret what we did, because I surely don't. "You should've made sure your bride wanted kids before you tied the knot," she says, slipping out of bed and into a thin, airy robe. "This isn't my fault."

"But why?" I say, following her with my eyes. "Won't you just give me a reason so we can talk about it?"

"I don't owe you anything," she says, tightening the robe.

"April," I say, voice growing firmer. She doesn't know how badly she's upsetting me and I'd like to keep it that way. I wish she would just open up so we could discuss this, but her walls have already been rebuilt. I don't know what I did to cause it, but I want to find out so we can work through it. She seems to be dead-set against that idea, though.

"No," she says, holding up a flat hand. "I'm going to sleep in the other room."

"April," I say, trying again. I don't fully recognize myself at the moment - I don't grovel or beg people for their attention. But my wife seems to have turned my values and beliefs on their heads.

"I said no, Jackson!" she exclaims, and my eyes widen. "Goodnight. Do not follow me."

After she leaves, I lie there in the wake of her words and feel my skin get hot. Completely naked, I feel exposed in more ways than one. I pull on a pair of boxers and cross my arms, eyebrows deeply furrowed, and stand in front of the French doors that lead to an immaculate view of the ocean. But without April by my side, somehow the vista isn't as breathtaking as it was before. I exhale and close my eyes for an extended moment, wondering if everything I shared with her was a mistake.

She reciprocated, but only with the bare minimum. She didn't explain her illegal surgery, but maybe she shouldn't be expected to. It was likely a traumatizing experience that she doesn't want to relive, and I would never ask that of her. I just want her to share her life with me as I shared mine with her. I don't think that's too much to ask of the person to whom I'm married. I know forcing her hand isn't the answer, but I was completely and utterly honest with her - and that took a lot of courage on my part. There's usually always something more with me, something else, something I keep for myself. But with her, I didn't want the holds barred any longer. I wanted to share everything because I didn't think I would regret it. But I was wrong. I do find myself regretting it now, because reciprocation on her part was nonexistent. So now, I've been left hanging - and that's not a feeling I'm partial to.

I stay on the balcony for hours, it seems, staring at the waves and wondering if there's a way to take tonight back. The sex we had was indefinitely the spark to my emotions pouring out, and though I don't have any desire to take it back, if I could, I know I should. Things would be better if feelings between us wouldn't have escalated to a fever pitch. I clearly wasn't thinking straight. How could I when she was standing before me in nothing but a lacy set of lingerie? The attraction is blatantly obvious. I'm not a robot - I'm a hot-blooded man with needs, and April is who I wanted to fulfill those needs with. I shouldn't have given in, though. Turning the controls over to the heart instead of the head never leads to a positive outcome.

I should've waited to tell her about the heir, though the timing seemed right. In that moment, I felt safe and I told her that I trusted her. I told her not because I was painting a facade, but because I meant it. Post-coitus, looking into her hazel eyes, everything felt locked in place. None of it felt like a sham. My emotions have never toiled with me so mercilessly. I'll do my best to never allow them to again, though I'm not sure how strong that statement will hold once I spend time around her again.

She does things to me that I don't like admitting to. I don't like coming around to the fact that I tend to soften around her. I don't soften for anyone - at least, I didn't used to. I have no idea how one small redhead could have so much power over me. She's much more dangerous than she realizes.

I lie down after a significant amount of time has passed and sleep only for a few hours before the sun rises. I get up as it slips over the horizon and exit the master bedroom to see that breakfast has already been delivered and April is on the main balcony with it. I falter at the sight of her, taken aback at how beautiful she is without trying. I have no idea how, in the beginning, I thought she was common at best. Now, she takes my breath away with her red, ocean-swept waves and freckled skin, not to mention the slopes of her breasts peeking through the opening of her robe. I doubt she wants to see me, so I'm in the process of turning around to retreat into the bedroom when her voice sounds. "Good morning, Jackson," she says, tone lilting over the crash of the waves just feet away.

I'm not used to being the one with lesser control between the two of us, but that's definitely where I stand at the moment. She's looking my way with clear eyes and a mug in her hands, blinking slowly and soberly. She seems different than last night; more like the April I've gotten to know in the Maldives rather than the one in Chicago. "Good morning," I say, approaching her.

I sit at the table and stay quiet, but she fills the silence. "There's breakfast," she says, motioning towards everything laid before us. "I waited for you."

"I hope not long," I say, lifting the lid of a tray to dish us both some eggs. I give her most of the bacon, knowing full well how much she likes it, and split the pineapple between us.

"No," she says. "The sun woke me up."

"Me, too," I say.

We're quiet for a beat, taking the first bites of food. She chew thoughtfully, watching the water before saying, "I'm sorry for how I acted last night. Or rather, how I reacted."

I nod, taking a sip of coffee. I've never tasted better coffee in my life, and it rejuvenates me in a way I badly need. "It's something we'll have to continue to discuss," I say, not pressing the issue but not letting it alone, either. I'm not willing to back down just because we fought, and she should know as much.

She nods subtly, tilting her chin as she reorients herself. She doesn't answer, but she doesn't refute me, either. I take that as a good sign. "It's a beautiful day," she comments.

"I doubt there's such thing as a gloomy one here," I say, smiling.

"You're probably right."

I clear my throat, chewing a forkful of eggs. "Did you sleep well?" I ask.

She tears her eyes away from the water to center on me - giving a look that both shakes and grounds me at once. "No," she says. "Did you?"

I shake my head. "Not at all."

She traces the rim of her mug with one finger, eyes downcast but unable to find a place to land. "I… I missed having you next to me."

"I missed that, too," I admit. I've gotten so used to holding her small body against my own, seeking her out in the cool darkness and finding solace in her, no matter how involuntary. The fact that I couldn't do as much last night was unsettling.

"But I needed space," she says, lifting her gaze. "And you have to understand that."

"I do," I say.

"Okay," she says, shoulders relaxing a bit. "I'll sleep with you tonight." The apples of her cheeks flush pink. "Sleep… in the bed. With you tonight, together. I want to sleep in our - the… our bed."

"Of course you should," I say, making a bold move and reaching across the table to overlap her hand with mine.

She meets my eyes, hers warm. She flips her hand so the palm is up and caresses my skin in the soft way she does, melting me. I don't know how she has this much of a hold over me, but it's undeniable. "Then I will," she whispers, lifting my hand to kiss the knuckles.

I've never been so confused in my life and I don't think there's a place to begin in asking questions. I come to terms with the fact that things between us will have to be figured out in their own time, whenever that time may be.

…

We decide that it's a perfect day for the beach, and to say I was unprepared for the way April looks in her bikini would be an understatement. It's peach-colored, going perfectly with her hair and skin, with a bandeau top and low-cut bottoms. She keeps pulling at the material as we walk along the sand, which tells me she's anything but used to wearing something like it. "I really don't think it's supposed to fit like this," she says. "You got me a size too small."

"I didn't," I say, snaking an arm around her shoulders. "That's just the style."

"What, for it to literally go inside my ass?" she shrills, still wriggling.

"Yes," I say, "Precisely."

"No, that can't be right."

"Well, stop and let me see, then," I say, halting my steps. She does, too, crossing her arms as I walk behind her.

"See?" she says. "I told you, it's wrong."

"It's not wrong at all," I say, letting my eyes graze over her curves that have filled out subtly since living with me. It's heartening to see her looking so healthy without bones sticking out where they shouldn't.

"Then what are you doing back there?" she quips.

"Just taking a look at you," I say, patting her butt before walking alongside her again.

"Jackson Avery!" she says, scowling playfully. She smacks my arm and I laugh, happy that we're finding the way back to where we'd found ourselves hours before.

We get settled on a spot near the water, completely secluded and alone. I sit in a beach chair with a pair of sunglasses on as April busies herself in the sand doing who-knows-what, wearing a wide-brimmed beach hat and allowing her freckles to bloom. All I do is watch her as she soaks up the sun and experiences a carefree lifestyle she's never known; I can see the joy on her face when she tilts it towards the sky. She grins to herself, patting the sand, and I can't hold back any longer. I need her close to me. "Sweet pea," I say, and she perks up instantly, looking over her shoulder. "Come here," I say with a jerk of my head.

Much to my luck, she stands without a fight or look of indignance. She ducks under the umbrella and sits on my lap comfortably after I welcome her, back against my chest with my arms wound around her middle. "Here," she says, taking off her hat so it's not shoved in my face. She fluffs her hair and rests her head on my shoulder, blinking up at me with a smile. "There. Isn't that better?"

"Much," I say, tightening my arms and enjoying the view of her face in such close proximity. I could count every freckle if I wanted to, her eyelashes are long and free of makeup, and the color of her lips is the most perfect shade of pink I've ever seen. Her skin is clear of any blemishes and I can even see the peach fuzz on her earlobes. She's nothing short of precious, and I have no idea when I started entertaining thoughts like this. She kisses what she can reach, which happens to be my chin, then looks towards the water with a content expression on her face. I follow her lead and look that way, too, resting my head against her while tracing the low band of her bikini bottoms.

She holds my wrists while letting my hands continue their pattern, her body relaxing further against mine in a way I can't help but enjoy. She sighs softly, belly expanding as she does, and I smile to myself. "It's so pretty," she says. "I really can't get over it."

I set my chin on her shoulder, admiring the same view she is. I nod and know she feels it, then run my thumb along the scar she went into light detail over last night. "April," I say, lips barely moving because of the position of my chin. "Baby, where did they take you to get the surgery done?"

Contrasting her lax body from moments before, April stiffens and subtly shifts her hands so they're underneath mine and I can no longer touch her stomach. Instead, much like instances prior, she protects it. "I don't remember," she mutters. "It was a long time ago."

"Oh," I say. "I was just curious. When we get back, I can take you to the best doctor in the city. That way, she can check if there are any lasting effects that should be taken care of."

"No," she says. "You don't need to do that."

"I think it's something valid to be worried about, though," I say, wondering why it wouldn't be on her mind if she had the surgery performed under the table. "Don't you want to confirm that you're 100% recovered?"

"I'm fine, Jackson," she insists. "I'm just fine, okay? I don't need you to worry about me. I can take care of myself."

"I never said you couldn't," I point out. "Why do you get so defensive about this?"

She frowns and turns to look at me, her face only centimeters from mine. "Because you act like you know me better than I know myself, and that's just not true," she says.

"I'm not trying to make it seem like that at all," I claim.

"Well, that's how it comes off," she murmurs.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I just ask because I care about you. Honestly, that's all."

She nods to herself, turning to face forward again. I stay looking at her face, though, studying the slopes and small details. I lean in and nuzzle her cheek with the tip of my nose and notice it gets a small smile out of her, so I do it again, but with my lips this time. I move lower to the corner of her jaw, then the spot on her neck that always makes her bend it because she's ticklish. "Jackson," she says softly, lifting her shoulder as I kiss the sensitive skin. "Jackson."

"Hmm," I murmur, my lips against her shoulder now.

"Stop," she says, moving to hold my head with one arm, her elbow under my chin.

"You don't want that," I murmur teasingly, looking at her with only my eyes.

She turns back to me finally, situating so we can sit face-to-face. Then, she cups my jaw with both hands and closes her eyes, rubbing her nose against mine, and kisses me full on the mouth.

What surges through my chest afterwards is something scarily akin to love.

…

When we get home, April decides to take a nap but I decline the invitation to join her. It's not that I don't want to be with her, but I'm not tired and I know for a fact my restlessness would only keep her up. So, I stay near the shore as she disappears inside to lie down, only going in a couple hours later when I'm sure she'll be awake.

The silence of the cabana tells me differently, though, and I smile to myself because of it. I don't bother calling out her name - she's grown to be quite a heavy sleeper and I find it endearing. I peer into the master bedroom only to have my suspicions confirmed - there she lies, sprawled out wearing nothing but a pair of purple boyshort underwear. She's on her back with one arm thrown over her head and the other slung across her waist, breathing so deeply that her hand rises and falls with each inhale and exhale. Her hair is fanned around her head, not on the pillow as she's positioned directly in the middle of the bed, with a few strands strewn about her face. Her lips are parted just slightly, her skin dewy because of the humidity, and I have the unrelenting urge to draw her.

So, I do it. I find the nearest paper that I can, which happens to be a resort notepad, and pick up the felt-tip pen alongside it. I don't bother moving to sit down, lest I disturb her, and begin to draw the first picture I've done in years. My eyes shift between my subject and the depiction, getting lost in the shape of her body and all of its rounds and edges. I've just gotten to the slight swell of her hips when she stirs, breathing deeply as her eyelids flutter. Immediately, I set the notepad down and walk closer, wanting to be the first thing she sees when she wakes up. "Hi," I say, smiling easily. My blood flows freer - the artistic muscle flexing and strengthening from what she's able to inspire within me. "You slept for a long time."

She reaches both arms above her head, flattening her breasts as I try not to glance at them. She closes her eyes and clenches her jaw with the stretch, then opens them to look right at me. "Did I miss dinner?" she asks.

I shake my head. "It's not for an hour or so."

"Good," she says, pushing her hair out of her face. "Then you can join me."

"Oh, I'm not tired," I say.

"Not to sleep," she says with a glint in her eyes. I frown, confused by what I think she's suggesting. I don't get time to clarify, though, because she spots the notepad a few feet away and grabs it before I have a say in the matter. "Oh…" she gasps, cheeks turning red. "Is this… is this me?"

"I didn't finish," I mumble. I don't know how I feel about her seeing it at all, no less before it's complete. "I'm rusty. It's not… you just looked so perfect."

She chews on her bottom lip, eyes roving all over the paper. "This can't be me," she murmurs.

"It is," I say. "I saw you, and… I just had to. I hope you don't mind. If it makes you uncomfortable, I won't do it again."

"No," she says quickly. "It doesn't… it…" She shakes her head. "I just can't believe the way you see me." She tears her eyes from the paper and meets mine, turning the notepad so I can see it. She points to the picture, as if I need specification. "She's beautiful," she says.

"Well, she's you," I say. "That's not just how I see you. You are beautiful, April. I just drew you how you are in your natural state."

"That's not true," she says, flipping the pad around to look at it again. "I just don't think it can be." She pauses for a while and smirks, lips pulling up a bit. Then, she whispers, "Were my nipples actually that hard, or was that just creative license?"

I chuckle. "The breeze helped," I say. She sets it to the side and beckons me forward, widening her arms to welcome my body. I'm not sure how to respond, given how poorly last night finished, but I can't do much in resisting her. "Are you sure?" I ask.

"You can't expect me to keep my hands off of you when you say such enchanting things to me, Mr. Avery," she says, lighting every one of my senses on fire.

I smile against her lips, kissing her slowly. "I just want to make sure it's what you want," I say. I want to be clearer, but I'm not sure how without shattering this moment. What I want to say is: _I want our intimacy to be unguarded, I don't want to pleasure you and be pleasured in return just for the sake of physical enjoyment. I want it to mean something. I want last night to have meant something. I don't want you to regret this as soon as it's over - I want to lie here and soak it up with you. I want to hear your secrets as you've heard mine. I want you to trust me and I know you don't._ But I don't say any of that, because I can't. I'm too swept up in her.

"It is what I want," she whispers, lips moving against my neck before moving to my collarbones. "And I want your clothes off, too." I'm not usually the one who's told what to do in the bedroom; that role is typically reversed. But with April, everything is different. I follow her lead and allow myself to fall.

She makes sure I have a condom before I reunite with her body, and once I do, we both feel the powerful, heady sensation that comes along with it. A surge of emotion courses through me as she wraps her limbs around my body, and I bury my face in her neck to hide them. Those feelings are not what she wants. She wants bodily contact, so I give her that and leave it to only that. There won't be any further expressions from my heart and no more deep secrets spilled, not until she joins me on that front. But until then - because I'm sure the day will come when she'll tell me more about her surgery and how it makes her feel - I can give her this. I'm glad to give her this.

"Oh, Jackson," she moans, and I close my eyes because of how sweet my name sounds coming from her lips. She lifts her pelvis to meet mine and I look at her face, framing it with one hand as I pump powerfully in and out of her. I love the way her body responds, shifting upwards on the mattress as I'm all the way in, and slackening when I pull out. She loses her breath with every thrust, extending her neck to expose her throat, and I take advantage of the position and suck hard on her pulse point until she starts to shake. I take pride in the fact that I didn't even use my fingers, and I love that I'm getting to know her body better.

"You're close," I say, hitching one of her legs higher with a hand under her sweaty knee. "Come on, sweet pea. Come for me."

"Oh, _god_ ," she groans, taking a heaving breath while tossing her head to one side. "Do you know how much I love hearing that?"

Feeling a sense of renewed accomplishment, I push that same button and say it again. "Come for me, sweet pea," I murmur, lips moving against her ear. "I wanna feel you come while I'm inside you."

That's what does it - what pushes her over the edge and makes her whole body vibrate and twitch with a long-lasting orgasm. She grips my shoulders and digs her fingers in, gritting her teeth before letting her jaw go slack so a drawn-out moan can tumble out. "Oh, baby," she whimpers, urging me along with her heels against my ass. "Oh, Jesus, baby… that felt amazing. You are amazing."

She holds my face as I work up to my own climax, thumbs on my cheekbones as our noses and foreheads press against one another. The movement of my hips becomes more erratic as I get closer, and I know she can tell by the way the light in her eyes changes. I smile breathlessly, shoving my hips harder against hers, and she takes it in stride, closing her eyes with the feeling. "Shit," I murmur, tension gathering in my groin.

She kisses me hard, centering me in place. "There it is," she breathes. "Just come, baby. Give it to me… you're almost there."

My eyes roll back as her words push me over and I spill everything I have inside her receptive heat. I plant kisses everywhere that I can reach, licking the droplets of sweat rolling down her neck and chest. I suck on her nipples hastily as I make my way down her body and ignore the scar entirely, not wanting to mar this moment even with thoughts of it. Instead, I find a home between her thighs and give her two more orgasms before dinner.

…

The remainder of the week flies by too quickly and before we know it, we're on the private plane headed back home. There's something on April's mind, that much I can tell, though she won't say what. I've only asked once and gotten shot down, so I haven't tried again. I don't want to pry, and I'd like to keep the faith that she'll tell me in due time, when she's ready.

We don't speak much on the way to Chicago. She's quiet until she falls asleep, and does so facing the window instead of cuddled up to me like she did the first time. I debate whether or not to wake her to situate her more comfortably, but I lose and end up keeping my hands to myself. She wants her space - she needs it. She had asked me to understand that concept before, so I'll do my best now.

She stares out the car window on the way home and takes my hand once we arrive. Everything is settling back in the way they were, a stark contrast to how we had acted in the Maldives. There was no pretending there - everything was authentic. We had real discussions, real fights, and real sex. Here, everything is hidden under a very shiny veneer. It's one that I've grown used to for most of my life, but having it stripped away for the first time was refreshing. It makes me want to see less of it, but I'm not sure how to make that happen.

As we're unpacking, April is still silent. She's sitting on the edge of the bed with her suitcase unzipped, one hand inside, unmoving. Finally, I can't bear to watch her anymore. I have to ask. "April, what's wrong?" I say. "There's something on your mind. Will you tell me what it is?"

For the first time all day, she snaps out of her reverie and meets my eyes. Though we're making contact, she still doesn't feel present. There's a cloudiness to her eyes that separates her from me and it's disturbing. "I'm okay," she murmurs, but there's pain laced in her voice.

"No, you're not," I say.

She blinks hard and rises closer to the surface, even if by an inch. It takes her a while to respond, but eventually she does. "I'm… no, I'm not," she says, clearing her throat. I'm anxious for what she'll say next, because I've finally gotten her to admit she's not well. We're one step closer. "I just… do you think we could go see my family?" she asks, eyes growing glassy. "I think it would help if I could see them. I miss them. I would like to see them."

"Of course," I say. "Let's go now."

It surprises her that I waste no time, but it shouldn't. If it's what will make her happy - or at least get her out of her head - then I'm glad to do it. Venturing to Lincoln Park as soon as we landed wasn't number one on my to-do list, but it's of no matter. If it's important and if it will help her, then we'll do it.

April's steps are light as she bounds up the front steps, leaving me in the dust as she goes. Her skirt bounces as do the curls in her hair; even the way she knocks on the door is jovial. I feel a pit in my stomach - does it really make her so unhappy to be with me? Her actions contrast each other so starkly - one moment she'll be completely blissed out and content in my presence, and the next it seems as if she's dying to be anywhere else. Right now feels more like the latter, like I'm an afterthought or a bug she wishes would die already. I don't belong here during this reunification and I almost excuse myself to the car, but Karen spots us before I can.

"Oh!" she enthuses. "Would you look who's come to pay us a visit. The Averys are here!"

" _Mom_ ," April says, but my chest swells at her words. I feel proud that April and I are lumped together, being the married couple that we are. Not only that, I'm proud that she's donned my last name.

"Come here. Give me a hug," Karen says, and sweeps her daughter into her arms. Immediately after April's turn is finished, she beckons me over and pats my back with surprising strength. "Come in!" she insists. "The girls are at a friend's house for a sleepover. But Libby is in the kitchen making spaghetti! We'd love it if you'd stay."

April looks to me for confirmation, though she needn't do so. I nod anyway, being that the former answer is too much for words, and she smiles widely. "We'd love to," she says.

Karen leads the way inside, saying, "You two just got back from the fancy Maldives, didn't you? I can tell, April. Your freckles are out."

"I put on sunscreen," April says. "And I wore a hat."

"Better than that one summer you got sun poisoning," Libby quips, laughing from where she stands near the stove.

"Yeah, yeah, we don't bring that up," April says, rolling her eyes as she leans on the counter. "Can I help?"

"Oh, no," Karen says. "Libby has it. You just got off a plane! You should relax."

"No, really," April says. "I wanna help."

"Make the salad then," Libby says. "All the ingredients are in the fridge."

April spins around without so much as a glance my way, and I find myself feeling incredibly invisible. It's not a common feeling for me - transparency - and I'm not frequently ignored. But April has made it clear that she's not here to pay attention to me. I shouldn't have come. I feel less than welcome until Karen makes it a point to acknowledge my existence. "Jackson," she says. "Since these two are so hard at work, why don't we go have a sit?" I smile cordially, hoping that my gratitude shows. "Call us when it's ready, girls," she says.

We move to the living room and sit down, silence finding its way between us for a few long moments. I'm not sure what to say - I don't sit and have conversations like this with my mother. Comfortable ones, as we wait for dinner to be made. We have business meetings that last for an allotted amount of time, nothing comfortable. I don't know where to begin, but luckily Karen does. "So, your honeymoon," she says, eyebrows up. "How did it go?" She pauses for a moment and ties the question with, "You can be honest."

Her last statement forces me to recall that she knows none of this is real. Or rather, that it's not supposed to be. "It was very nice," I say. "It was beautiful. We had a wonderful time. I'd never been to the islands before, so it was lovely to experience them together."

She tips her head, giving me a look that I've seen on April before. Dubious, scrutinizing. She can see right through me. She and her daughter are one in the same on that front. "Jackson," she says. "How about you tell me how it really went."

I blink hard, balking. I see where April inherited her boldness, too. "I…" I begin, but find myself falling short. I laugh uncomfortably, saying, "Well, I honestly couldn't very well tell you how it went."

She frowns a bit. "What do you mean by that?"

I sigh deeply. "I mean…" I say. "I usually tend to be a good reader of people. But your daughter has sufficiently confused me. Once I'm convinced I know what she's thinking, she throws me for a loop."

Karen smiles gently. "I know exactly what you mean."

"I told her things," I say, pausing while giving her a pointed look. The look means - _I told April things, but I don't plan on telling you. So, please, don't ask._ I can only hope she interprets it in the correct manner. "Important things. Things I hold very dear. And, in turn, she told me a personal secret, too. One I hadn't been expecting, honestly." Karen's face turns ashen. Her lips part and the expression in her eyes changes to something I can't put my finger on - maybe something close to fear. Apprehension, at the very least. "It took so much to get it out of her," I say. "And still, she won't elaborate."

Karen clears her throat. "You said April is hard to read," she says, and I nod. "She wasn't always that way, you know. Well… because of what she told you about. It changed her, Jackson. You and I can't imagine how that changes a person."

I nod slowly, trying to piece the information together. "I'm sure it was traumatic," I say. "But wasn't there any other way? I understand, it was an emergency, but there must have been _something_. I just keep picturing April being cut open on a metal slab in a dark alley, appendix being sliced out of her with a kitchen knife. It's a horrible image, so of course, I can't come close to imagining how it was to live through. But why won't she tell me details? I would like to get her the best help available."

Karen's face shifts again, this time morphing through a myriad of emotions before settling on pure and honest confusion. "Excuse me," she says, eyebrows lowering. "What? An appendix?"

I nod slowly, now confused as well. "Yes…" I say. "She needed her appendix removed when she was younger and had to have surgery done under the table in order to fulfill the procedure, since your family couldn't afford it. Nor do I assume you had insurance. But what I'm worried about is the after-effects, and how it could be impacting her n-"

"Jackson," Karen says, cutting me off with a swift movement of her hand. "April never had appendix surgery under the table. That didn't happen - it's not true."

I squint, thoroughly in the dark now. "Then why would she tell me as much?" I ask. "You'll have to excuse me, but I'm lost. She told me the scar on her lower abdomen is from a rudimentary surgery. For appendix removal."

Now, Karen's eyes are guarded and she's backed away slightly. "No," she says, shaking her head. "No, my daughter has never had that kind of surgery. That's not what the scar is from."

I take a deep breath, huffing air from my nose violently. "Then what is it from?" I ask.

"It's not my place to tell you," Karen says sadly. "I'm sorry, honey. Like I said, she…" Her sentence breaks as she trails off and she doesn't finish. "I'm sorry."

I stand up from the couch in a hurry, straightening my clothes once I'm at full height. "Pardon me," I say, nodding curtly. I walk with long strides back into the kitchen and know Karen is on my heels, anticipating what's about to happen.

April turns around once she hears my entrance and looks at me with wide eyes. "What's wrong?" she asks.

"I'll be at home," I say, clenching my fists so my hands don't shake. "I assume I'll see you there later."

I turn on my heel and walk towards the door, hearing footsteps follow. When my hand touches the doorknob, a different hand touches the inside of my elbow and turns me around with no force at all. Suddenly, I'm looking into my wife's puzzled and determined face. "What is going on, Jackson?" she asks. "Are you sick?"

"I'm not sick," I say, shaking her hand off of my arm.

"Then what is wrong with you?"

I stare at her hard, knowing she must feel the singe of my eyes. "You know how important honesty is to me, April," I say. "And you lied. You let me believe you, you let me look like a jackass. You let me worry about your wellbeing when you've never had surgery in your life."

She falters, mouth opening and closing for a moment as she tries to find the right words. "I… I… that's not true..."

"Yes, it is. Your mother told me. And it was by accident, so there's no need to crucify her for letting go of your precious secret," I say. "She told me nothing else. You've kept it locked up tightly and sworn everyone to secrecy, haven't you?" My voice is low but demanding. She hasn't looked away once. "I am your husband, April. When will the lies end? When are you going to let me stop feeling like an idiot for trusting you so much?"

Her eyes glisten before a tear falls from each eye. I have an innate urge to wipe them away, wipe away her sadness, but I keep my hands at my sides. Her lips part and strands of spit cling to each one, wavering with her breath. I've upset her - that much is clear. But I have no regrets. She's made me feel much in the same way. "I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice barely making it out because of how much it cracks.

I grit my teeth, cheeks bulging from the effort. I stare at her face for a long moment without being able to think of a word to say, not anything coherent anyway. Standing across from her in this tiny foyer, I hate her with every fiber of my being. But deeper inside, where my more intelligent emotions lie, I'm aware that I hate her only because I've allowed myself to love her. And because of that, I hate myself. This was never supposed to happen.

The kind of hurt I'm feeling now only occurs when the walls come down, and they should have never come down. That was my mistake.

"I'll see you at home," I say, finally opening the door to leave. "Have a nice night with your family."


	9. Chapter 9

**APRIL**

After the door closes, I'm left staring at the cherry wood and wondering if I should go after Jackson. I take a step forward and let my fingers brush the knob, tempted to turn it, but I refrain. My feet stay rooted in place, listening to the car drive away and knowing that - even with how upset he is - Jackson will send for me in a few hours. I won't be stuck without a way home.

It's strange, thinking of the mansion as my home instead of this house where my family lives. But as I look around, it's clear I don't live here with them. Though my face is present in the frames on the walls, I didn't place them. I don't have a room nor more than one pair of shoes sitting in the entryway. I don't have a designated spot on the couch nor at the table. It's strange, feeling like I don't belong in either of the places that I should. I'm torn between both, which has landed me in neither.

I should've gone after Jackson. That's what a good wife would do, which only proves the fact that I'm far from holding that title. I should at least call him. But when I touch my phone, I come to realize that he might want his space more than he wants to talk to me. So, that's what I'll do for him. Married couples fight and that's okay. We can spend some time apart without it being the end of the world.

Plus, I'm not ready to leave this house after I only just got here. Whenever I'm with my mom and sisters, something feels set in place. I was ripped away from them so suddenly and without much consent, like a baby bird pushed from the nest. So, when I'm able to get back their comfort, I leap at the chance. "Honey," Mom says, calling me away from the door. I look at her over my shoulder, tucking hair behind my ear. "Come talk to me for a bit."

I run my hands through my hair nervously, having hoped to avoid this conversation at all costs. I'm not necessarily angry with her for exposing me - she could've done much worse than she did - but I'm not happy, either. I'm not sure if I planned on sticking with that lie forever. I know it wasn't trustworthy, especially given how much he values the truth, but anything would be easier than telling him what really happened.

Mom sits on one side of the couch and leans against the arm while I tuck in my knees on the other side. She studies me with a soft and sympathetic expression, and I find myself wanting to look anywhere but her eyes. I want to get up and run away from what's about to devolve. I can't let this happen - I won't allow these floodgates to open. "I'm sorry…" she begins. "I had no idea that I was getting you in trouble."

"It's fine," I say, downplaying it. "How could you know? It's not your fault."

"But honey, you lied to him," she states.

"Yeah, I know," I respond.

"Why?"

I shrug petulantly, like the teenager I was never allowed to be. "I don't really want to talk about it," I say.

"With me, or with him?"

"Either," I say. "Both."

"He doesn't know anything about what happened?" Mom asks. "All that you told him was that you had an appendectomy under the table."

"Yes, and I pulled it out of thin air. Is that what you're trying to get me to say?" I snap.

"Hey now," she says. "You don't need to take it out on me."

"I'm sorry," I mutter. "I just don't want him to know. Or… or… I don't know. Maybe it's not him knowing that's so bad, but _telling_ him." My face falls as I pick at a thread on my pants and refuse to look up. "I talk about it, and it happens all over again." I shake my head and hair falls from behind my ears. "I don't want that."

"I know, baby," she says, reaching to cap a hand over my knee. "But no matter the circumstances, you two are married. And I think that's going to be the case for quite a while."

"Believe me, I'm aware," I say, chewing the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from crying. I don't want this to turn into a sob-fest. I just want to stop talking. "And that's part of the problem."

"What do you mean, the problem?" she asks.

"There's another half to the inheritance," I say. "And we're not getting it unless we have a baby."

I look up to gauge her expression, but I can't see through it. Her face is stoic, eyes glassy, but her thoughts are unreadable. "Oh," she says.

"Yeah, and obviously that's not happening," I say, barely moving my lips.

She strokes my knee with her thumb, moving in circles in an attempt to soothe me. It doesn't work, though. It only irritates me further; I move my leg so she can't touch it anymore. With the threat of the memory encroaching, I feel the unignorable need to be alone. To push away the people closest to me so I can forget about everything again. Seeing my mom's face like it is right now reminds me of how it looked the night it happened. All of the happiness leading up to the event was wiped away and left a barren slate. It's still so easy to remember how empty my chest felt after everything was said and done. How I empty I was in general. How I never thought I'd climb out of the depression that followed, but somehow I did. I had to. There was no other choice. So, now, I'm afraid that going back and reliving it will only make me sink back down. And what will be the driving force to pull me out this time? I'm afraid nothing could. I'm afraid that if I bring the memory back, I'll succumb to the familiar darkness that comes with it.

"I should go and see if Libby needs help," I say, attempting to stand before Mom takes my elbow and lowers me again.

"Honey, we should really…"

"No, thank you," I say, gently pulling my arm away from her. "I'm gonna go see if Libby needs help."

I retreat into the kitchen where my sister, none the wiser, is pouring sauce into a saucepan on the stove. I don't say anything; I just lean against the counter with my hands braced behind me and stare ahead, dazed. "You alright?" she asks, turning to strain the noodles in the square marble sink.

"Yeah," I mutter.

"Where'd your hubby go off to?" she asks, shaking the colander.

I blink, a bit disoriented, still half-stuck in that snowy winter night from five years ago. "I… uh…" I clear my throat. "He went home."

"Why?" she asks, then laughs. "Too good for our poor man's spaghetti?"

"No," I say, eyebrows furrowed. "He just… he… he didn't feel very good."

"Oh," she says. "That's too bad. Well, I'm glad you stayed. Are you okay? You seem a little weird."

I shake my head a bit as an attempt to clear it. "I'm good," I say, forcing a smile. "I'll go set the table."

Mom comes in a few minutes later, having just hung up the phone. "Kimmie and Alice don't want to sleep over," she says. "I'll be back in a minute, they're just around the corner."

"I'll go," I volunteer, standing up straight and jumping at the chance to have a moment alone.

"You sure?" she asks. I nod. "It's number 831; blue house with white shutters. They'll be so happy to see you."

I put my shoes on and zip my jacket, shoving my hands into the pockets as I walk towards the house my mother described. The brisk air is refreshing as it washes through my system, and I take a moment to center myself, planting my feet firmly on the ground. Tonight, I'm playing the role of 'daughter' and 'sister'. Later, I'll play the role of 'wife.' It's confusing, to say the least, keeping them straight. It doesn't feel like the three are allowed to join into one combined persona that makes up 'April.' I come to the conclusion, just steps away from picking up my sisters, that I don't have the slightest clue how to play that part.

"Sissy?" Alice gasps. "Kimmie, it's Sissy! Sissy came to pick us up!"

The door swings open and my two little sisters come bombarding out, crashing into me where I stand. I gather them in my arms and close my eyes with a smile, relishing the way it feels to hold them. I hadn't realized how badly I'd missed them, and it hurts my heart to see how much they've grown without me bearing witness. "You two are so big," I say, cheeks squished from how tightly they're squeezing me. "So big!"

The mother of their friend steps onto the porch and her eyes flash with recognition as she looks at me. "I didn't expect you," she says, and the tone of her voice is hard to read. "I knew you were their sister but…" She nudges her glasses up and straightens her shoulders. "You're married to Jackson Avery now, aren't you?"

"Yes," I say, suddenly defensive because of the way she said his name. I can tell by her tone that she doesn't think highly of the man I've unexpectedly grown protective of.

"How nice," she says, flashing a smile that tells me she thinks it's anything but nice.

"Jackson is the bestest," Alice says, still clinging to me. "Maybe he could come and play here next time!"

"Maybe," I say, one hand on the back of her head as I stand up and direct both my sisters down the stairs. I turn back once they're out of earshot and say, "Do you have a problem with my husband?" My tone is clipped and clearly means business. I'm not sure what's come over me, but there's a deep rage that's running through my veins due to the notion that she thinks ill of him.

"No," she says coolly. "None."

"Good," I say, nodding curtly. "Have a good night, then. Thank you for hosting them."

As we walk home, a sister's hand in each of mine, Kimmie looks up with curiosity on her face. "Why did Myla's mommy ask about Jackson?" she says.

"She was just curious," I answer.

Alice gasps dramatically. "Is he at our house? Please, please, please say yes!"

"No," I say. "His tummy was hurting, so he went home."

Instantly, they both droop. "Aw," Kimmie says.

"I wanted to play with him," Alice says.

"Next time," I say, opening the front door. "Go on in. Shoes need to be off and hands need to be washed. Spaghetti should be on the table."

"Sissy, sissy!" Alice says, slipping out of her tennis shoes. "How about we do a sleepover with you tonight!"

"Sleepover, yeah!" Kimmie cheers. "Please, please? You can sleep in my bed."

"No, mine!" Alice says. "No, wait! All of us in the big, extra bed!"

"Yeah, like we used to do!"

As I look at both of their eager faces, there's no way I can possibly say no. I haven't spent a night with them in forever, and I miss them terribly. Though it will be strange to stay a night away from Jackson, it's worth feeling connected to my family. It's a feeling I've been lacking, and maybe by fulfilling the need it'll allow me to be more present for him. "Sure," I say, and they both jump up and down with glee. "Just give me a second to call Jackson and tell him."

"Can I talk to him?" Alice asks hopefully.

"No, you go get washed up for dinner," I say. "I'll just be a second." Both of them scamper away, and I lean against the wall while taking off my shoes and pressing on his contact. The picture enlarges to fill the screen - one of him by the water in the Maldives as he's wearing my sunglasses and grinning widely - and I smile slightly at the sight of it.

"Hello?" he says, answering after the second ring.

"Hi," I say, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious. His tone is so businesslike; he hasn't spoken to me like that in weeks. "Um, it's me."

"I know," he says. "Are you ready to be picked up?"

"Um… no, actually," I say. "That's why I'm calling. I think I'm gonna stay here tonight."

There's a slight pause before he says, "Oh."

I can tell he's trying to keep an even keel, but what I said upset him. I try not to let that bother me. He can be upset. I'm upset, too. I resist the urge to ask him if it's okay, because of course it is. I don't need to ask for permission to do anything. "What are you doing tonight?" I ask, hearing a din of sound underlying his voice. "Where are you?"

"I'm out with an old friend," he says, and I can't stand the cordial way he says it. How are we the same couple who was all over each other for no one's sake but our own on the islands just a handful of hours ago? I don't recognize those people anymore. Now that we're back in Chicago, everything has returned to the way it began and I hate it.

"Oh," I say. "Fun. Who?"

He clears his throat uncomfortably. "Alexandra Grey," he says. "You've probably not heard of her."

Quickly, as if I've been learned in smartphones for more than just a couple months, I pull up Google and search both of their names together. What comes up is a handful articles that list this 'Alexandra' as Jackson's old flame - one he was always seen at clubs with, never exclusively dating but it's implied that there was something sexual going on between them. Seeing this, my body lights on fire and I'm sure my skin must turn a deep shade of red. "Nice," I say, clipped. "What are you doing, then?"

"We're at Studio Paris," he says, and I recognize that as the name of a nightclub.

"Jack, would you get off the phone and come back over here?" a female voice says.

I grit my teeth and let a long gust of air escape my nose. That voice paired with the stories I just skimmed knocks me off the rickety foundation I'd built and everything crumbles down. "Guess you should go," I spit. "Jack."

"April, listen," he begins, but I don't let him finish.

"Just sleep with her, Jackson," I say, letting the words tumble from my lips without control. "I know that's what you're trying to do. So, just do it. I don't care." Then, without waiting for a response, I hang up and shove the phone back into my purse. I leave the bag hanging on the hook so I won't be tempted to check it, then go into the kitchen to join my family for dinner.

I feel guilty as I sit with my family because all I want to do is get up and leave. I want to go home to the mansion and make things right with Jackson, though I'm not entirely sure how I would go about doing that. Why in the world would I tell him to sleep with another woman? Why did those words come out of my mouth? Am I really that stupid? What's stopping him from actually doing it? What could I possibly offer him that she can't? I'm guessing she's a nice lay, no strings attached, no emotions. Just what he wants. When, after having sex with me, he has to launch into a full-out therapy session. What man wouldn't choose the former?

My mom keeps looking over, her eyes searing right through me - all during dinner and afterwards, too. As I'm helping clean up the table, she lingers near me and I can practically hear her thoughts. She wants to pick my brain and get to the bottom of why I won't tell Jackson the truth, when it's really not that complicated. I already told her the reason. I don't want to relive what happened. I don't want to share it. By speaking it aloud, my abstract memories are allowed a heartbeat. By leaving them behind, I've left everything in its grave. I'm not about to willingly exhume it.

"Sissy! We have to show you how the new TV works. You're not gonna believe it!" Kimmie says, tugging on my wrist after she and Alice have both had a bath.

"Movie! We can watch a movie!" Alice adds.

"I don't think so," Mom cuts in. "It's past 9. It's time for little girls to get to bed."

"Aw, but mommy," Alice whines. "Sissy's here! And it's Saturday."

"It's late," Mom says, not giving in. "Time for bed."

"Then can Sissy at least sleep with us in the extra bed in the guest room?" Kimmie asks, hopeful. "Please?"

"April isn't going to sleep yet, but I'm sure she'd love to join you when it's time," Mom says.

"No, I think I'll turn in now," I say, stretching and yawning for emphasis. "I'm really tired."

Creases appear on Mom's forehead; I know she wants me to stay up. She wants to have that deep conversation, but I won't budge. I'm not looking to spill my guts any more tonight than I already have. "Oh," she says. "Of course. Good night, then. I love you all."

I get settled with the girls in the guest bedroom, lying in the middle of them like I always used to. They curl into my sides and I pull them close, pressing a kiss to the top of their ginger heads and breathing in the childlike way they smell. Like L'Oreal shampoo and something sweet that I've never been able to put my finger on. It's comforting, though, and it reminds me of how things used to be. Back when we were poor and had only each other and the ratty clothes on our backs, but somehow I had less on my mind then than I do now. I wasn't necessarily happy, but I had less to worry about. My worries were tangible and controllable; every day, I had to figure out how to put food on the table for the little ones. I had to make them look presentable for school, I had to pay the bills, I had to get a good night's sleep for work. I resist the urge to laugh at the fact that, in retrospect, all of that is simple compared to my worries now.

Now, I have a husband to think about. As my two sisters sleep peacefully beside me, I'm wide awake with thoughts of what Jackson might be up to. Is he in bed - our bed - with Alexandra? Are they at her place? Is he enjoying it? Does he love her? Does he love _me_? Is he thinking about me at all?

I screw my eyes shut tight and shake my head subtly, not enough to wake them. I've never been the type to obsess over a man and I won't start now, though it seems too late. I can't stop going over what I said to him - I told him to sleep with her. I can't get past that. I'd like to think that, even though I essentially gave him permission, he won't do it. It was in the heat of the moment and he had to know I was upset. He knows better than to betray me like that. Or, at least, I would hope so.

I barely sleep, finding that I can't get comfortable in the way I used to sandwiched between them. I've grown more accustomed to being pressed against Jackson's hard form, legs curled around his, his arms encapsulating my body. Being in bed with my sisters has become foreign much in the way being with him was in the beginning. So, when the sun peeks over the horizon, I carefully slip out of bed and get dressed to leave after writing a note saying I'll be back soon. I don't bother calling for the car but instead take public transportation as far as I can, then walk the rest of the distance to the mansion.

During the walk, my mind is clear and focused. Though I hadn't gone into full detail over the marred memory last night, it's still on the forefront of my mind and I want it out. And the only way to get it out is to share it with Jackson - the real thing, what he wants to know so badly. I know he deserves to know. He bared his heart and all I gave in return was smoke and mirrors. It's time for that to change. So, with a mission in mind, I buzz in to the house expecting to see him, but I'm met with silence instead.

I expected him in the front room with a cup of coffee and breakfast, but I find it empty. I wander through the first floor without calling out and end up running into Antonio - who gives me a look that makes my stomach churn. "If you're looking for your beloved, he's still in the master bedroom," he says, voice slippery.

"Thanks," I say, backing up while still looking his way.

"We missed you in the household last night, Mrs. Avery," he continues. "Where might you have been?"

"With my family," I say. "I slept over with them. They missed me. I-I missed them."

"It was unfortunate, both of you being out so late," he says, eyeing me. "Mr. Avery didn't return until only an hour or two ago. It was quite cold without the married couple here."

"Oh," I say, not sure how else to fill the silence. "I… um, well, I'm gonna go find him now."

"I'm sure you'll have much to discuss," Antonio says. His feet aren't moving but his eyes trail me as I leave the room, and as soon as I do I can't help but shudder. He gives me the creeps for too many reasons to count.

But following his advice, I find my way up to the master bedroom where Jackson is. The door is cracked a bit, and before I go in, I stand outside and spend a moment bracing myself with deep breaths. This is a big moment. I'm going to tell him everything. After this, there's no going back. I'll have given a piece of myself to him that no one else has.

"April," I hear from inside, just as I was about to push open the door. "Are you going to come in or just stand there?"

I push on the door and it swings open. Jackson is sitting in the armchair near the window, dressed in the clothes that I'm sure he was out in last night. He smells like a nightclub and something is off-kilter about him. He's not usually one to seem disheveled, but right now he does. It's unsettling, to say the least. It forces me to think that something must be wrong. He meets my eyes but his are cloudy, saying much more than the silence can. Suddenly, this doesn't feel like a conducive environment in which to tell my secret. There's poison in the air, and I think I know why.

"Did you sleep with her?" I ask, my entire body having grown tense. Every muscle is rigid as I cross my arms and pressing my lips tightly together.

Emotion flashes across his face and it gives me all the answer I need. He opens his mouth but at first no sound comes out - it takes a moment for his thoughts to gather and combine to make something coherent. "April, you gave me permission over the phone."

I start crying instantly. Not debilitating, racking sobs, but silent tears that slip down my face as I stare at him. I start to shake, body trembling, as I say, "How could you?"

"You told me to," he says, still sitting as I stand. The power imbalance is clear but newfound. I'm not usually the one with the upper hand.

I can't help but gape, wondering how he could think that's the right thing to say. "I didn't mean it!" I shrill. "I was upset. I just said it to say it."

"What happened between Alexandra and me didn't mean anything," he says. "It was a meaningless blowjob at a nightclub. We've done it a thousand times. It's not like there were feelings attached."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better," I say, scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes. "You're a pig, Jackson. Why would you take what I said seriously?"

"You're my wife!" he bellows. "All this time, you've asked me to take you seriously because of that, and suddenly I'm not supposed to?"

"You're supposed to think with your brain, not your penis," I growl. "I'm sure you loved it. I'm sure she gave you everything I can't. Emotionless sex! That's perfect, isn't it? That's just what you want."

"I have no idea how you can say that," he says. "When I'm the one who gave you everything after what we did and all you did was lie. If anyone's betrayed someone, it's you, April. I made a mistake, I admit it. But you've been leading me on and keeping me at an arm's length for months. You said it yourself - you're my wife. When will you start acting like it?"

"When I can trust you!" I argue, fists bunched at my sides. "And how am I supposed to do that now?"

"Before this, what had I done to lead you to believe you couldn't?" he counters. "Take care of you, spoil you, listen to you, make you feel secure? Were all of those things so very damning?"

"You belittled, imprisoned, and pressured me, too," I say. "Don't forget all of that."

"Enough with the imprisonment shit!" he shouts. "I'm not keeping you here against your will, April. I can't stand it when you say that!"

"You can't stand it because it's true," I say. "I wouldn't be here if you hadn't forced me to be. You wouldn't have picked me if I weren't an easy target. This marriage was never built to last, Jackson, and you know it. Yet you continue to force it. And you have the audacity to get mad when I feel hurt over the fact that you were with another woman. How does that even make sense?"

"You told me to!" he says. "And it was just a blowjob, it wasn't-"

"She put her hands on what's mine!" I scream, unsure of where this is all coming from. My chest is heaving, face flushed, and I can't calm down.

"I've asked you time and time again," he says, lowering his voice. "I've asked you to let me in and you won't. And the time I thought you had, it was a lie. I felt tricked, April. I felt used." He stands up. "Don't try and pretend that you don't have feelings in this game, because I know you do. You have them just as much as I do."

I balk at his statement. "You sure have a funny way of showing it," I say.

Ignoring what I've said, he continues. "You won't let me in," he says. "And that's all I want. I want to know you, April. I admit, this started out all wrong. It wasn't right and it wasn't normal. But…" He's having a hard time saying what he wants to say, and rage is still boiling in my gut. "I just want to know what you're keeping from me. I want to take your walls down."

"You want, you want, you want," I argue. "It's always about what you want, isn't it?" I close my eyes for an extended moment and open them to say, "I came in here to tell you what happened to me. But how can you expect me to do it knowing that you went and slept with someone else?"

Anger toils his features and he has to look away. "I didn't sleep with her," he says. "I would never have slept with her."

"You let her suck your dick, isn't that enough?" I hiss. "You don't care about me. If you did, you wouldn't have done that."

"I was trying to convince myself of that!" he roars. "I didn't want to care about you, April, I didn't want this marriage to mean anything! But that's not a reality anymore and you've left me to figure it out on my own."

"I'm sure it was easier when you felt nothing," I say. "And I'm sure your charmed life will be just as nice once you get back to that place."

"Why do you act like I don't have feelings?" he says. "Why do you act like I'm some heartless prick?"

"That's what you wanted me to think," I say. "First impressions are hard to overcome."

"That was then," he says. "And since, I've told you things about myself that I don't tell anyone. I played the piano for you, April. I drew you. I haven't drawn in over ten years and I drew you. That's not nothing. It takes a lot for me to admit that that's something, and I'm admitting it because I have feelings!"

"About what!" I sputter.

"You!" he volleys back. "About you, April. For you." I blink hard, unsure of how to stomach this. "I don't think I made that hard to figure out on our honeymoon," he says.

"That was different," I say. "That was there, in the islands. Now we're here, and, well… it's different here."

"Why?" he says. "Why does it have to be?"

"Because," I say. "Because… there's no middle ground. Everything is completely right or completely wrong. There's no in between. I can't ever get things straight and life is confusing. I think I feel a certain way towards you, then I get scared. Then you go and let someone else put her mouth on you."

"And you'd like to be the only one who does that," he says.

I meet his eyes pointedly but I can't respond with words. He may have stolen the reply straight from my mouth, but there's no way I can put my voice behind it. I'm not ready yet. I'm not there. I don't know how he got to be so quickly. "I'd like you not to cheat on your wife," I say. "That's all I know right now."

"I am sorry," he says, and by the depth of his voice I can tell he means it. It's a different story, though, whether or not I'm ready to accept that apology. He went behind my back and did something I couldn't see coming. It hurts, knowing he was with someone else. It hurts knowing he made that conscious choice. "But I'm not the only bad guy here."

I lift my head and frown, eyes roving his face. "You let her-"

"I know what I did," he says. "And I am truly sorry. You have my word that it won't happen again, ever. But you can't turn every argument back on me, April. I'm trying. I'm trying to be good at marriage, I'm trying to be a good husband for you. I know I'm not there yet, but you aren't either. The secrets have to stop."

I cross my arms again, closing off my chest. The key has been pulled out of the lock and tucked away again, the secret having sunken into the deep blue once more. It's no longer close to the surface and I'll make sure it won't be for a long time. It's clear neither of us are ready - I'm not ready to tell him and he's not ready to hear it. "My secret is my choice," I say. "You don't have the right to pull it out of me. It's mine. It might be the only thing I have that's truly mine. You won't take it."

"Why do you talk like that?" he asks. "Why do you make me sound like some master manipulator, when all I want is to know you better? To help you?"

"Why should I believe you when you spent all that time being icy to me?" I say. "You expect me to let you in so easily when you've barely earned your place. You don't know me, Jackson. I may share your last name, but you haven't seen my heart."

"Then why won't you let me?"

I turn around so my back faces him, staring at the carpet as I mutter, "I don't know."

Before our fight turned conversation can continue, a voice that I recognize as Calliope's sounds from the stairs. "Averys!" she calls. "You have damage control to do, Jesus Christ. My job is never done." She appears in the doorway and thrusts a copy of _OK! Magazine_ in our faces. On the cover is Jackson pictured with Alexandra, both exiting Studio Paris last night. The headline says: **ALEXANDRA GREY - THE NEW MRS. AVERY? READ HOW SHE'S REPLACING THE RAGS TO RICHES REDHEAD!**

"Fuck," Jackson says, snatching it. "Fuck!"

"I don't know what happened last night, and I don't care," Calliope says. "And I don't know what's happening between you two, but I also don't care. Either way, this needs to be fixed. There are reporters at the gate and-"

"I'll talk to them," I say, standing up and setting my shoulders.

Both Calliope and Jackson give me strange looks. "That's not what I meant," she says.

"A statement straight from my mouth is all that will get them to leave it alone," I say. "I'll get dressed and give a comment."

"What are you going to say?" Jackson asks warily.

I shoot him a sidelong glance. "I'm going to save your ass," I say. "So, don't worry about how I'm going to do it. Just stay inside. If you come with me, they'll think I'm being persuaded."

No one follows as I freshen up in the bathroom, stepping out in a light sundress and white blazer. I put on shoes to walk the length of the driveway and Calliope joins me, sending me silent strength while matching my stride. She was right - there's a gaggle of reporters with cameras and notepads at the gate, all straining and snapping pictures once we both come into view.

"Mrs. Avery! Mrs. Avery!" they all shout, calling me a name that's so unfamiliar. I'm not sure if any of them are aware I also have a first name. "What do you have to say about what happened last night? Are you and Jackson over? What was the last thing he said to you? Have you met the other woman? How are you reacting to this news?"

My face doesn't waver and I try to stay as unflappable as possible. I get closer to the fence and make eye contact with each of them, wordlessly hushing the crowd. It's strange, feeling as if I have power over them. It's not something I'm used to. "I'm here to speak on behalf of the photos released containing my husband," I say. "And Alexandra Grey." They all wait in greedy rapture, clinging to my every word. I know they'll get everything, so I have to assure that I make no mistakes. "Their outing last night was a benign one," I say. "I had affairs to attend to and Jackson wanted a night out. I suggested he see one of his old friends from the scene, and they were together platonically. I've met her and she's a lovely woman, not one who would ever hone in on someone else's relationship." The last part comes out sickly sweet. "Mine and Jackson's marriage is doing very well. There's absolutely nothing to worry about. I'm sure we'll step out together sometime very soon. Thank you for your time." And with that, I turn on my heel and head back towards the house with Calliope at my side.

"That was good," she says once they're out of earshot. She takes my elbow and pulls me close as we continue to walk, saying, "Is everything okay, April? If you need to talk, I'm available. This family can be a lot to handle… I know. But Jackson, he really cares for you. I've never seen him act the way he does for you."

"She went down on him last night because I gave him permission to sleep with her," I state bluntly. "I was upset and he took me seriously. I feel double-crossed and betrayed. He cheated on me because I told him to."

"Oh…" she says, grip slackening a bit. "So, that's what's going on." I don't bother noting that what I said barely scratches the surface. I'm not about to spill my guts to her. "Look, April. He and Alexandra were an on-again-off-again thing for a while, but he's barely seen a trace of her for years. She's not exactly a bad person, they had fun together, but she doesn't do for him what you do. You bring out the Jackson I used to see when he was younger. You have to imagine how scary it is for him - to go back to the mindset he used to hold when his father passed away. By doing that, he's allowing that grief back in. Grief that, I believe, he's never fully dealt with. A version of him died when they put Robert under the ground, but you're bringing it back up. That's terrifying for him. So, please, I'm just asking you to be patient with him. Jackson is a great person once you get past the top few layers. He wants to show you that he cares for you, because he does. Deeply. You challenge him in a way no one has before. He's used to being the quickest in the room and you've made sure that isn't the case. He's enamored with you, April. And I think you feel somewhat of the same way towards him." She smiles softly. "It's nice to see him feel something for someone other than himself."

I look at her with unease, wondering how she climbed inside both my brain and his. It's clear she knows Jackson well, but she doesn't know my backstory like she knows his. I want to say something, but I'm not sure what. I'm tired of being combative, of always having a counterargument up my sleeve, but that's the only way I know to protect myself and what I'm keeping. What I've always kept.

"Just try," she says after a considerable amount of silence has passed. "He has his problems, of course he does. I'm sure you do, too. But if you just try to let him in, you'll see that he's nowhere near the person you first met. Under all this." She makes a wide gesture with her hands. "You should get to know who he really is, and I think he'd like to show you. I think he'd like to see what's inside your heart, too."

"It's not that easy," I say once we're back inside. "Everything isn't as cut and dry as you make it seem."

"So, take it slow," she says. "Baby steps."

I sigh and try to take her words to heart. Try not to be so stubborn and so closed off. I give a small nod and she leaves me alone in the foyer before I eventually head up the stairs and back into the bedroom, where Jackson is looking at his phone. I hear my voice coming from the speakers with the words I just said, and he looks up with a relieved expression on his face.

I take my heels off and cross the room, standing in front of him where he sits on the edge of the bed. I rest my hands on his shoulders and he looks vulnerably up at me, his eyes reading a thousand different emotions that his mouth could never say. Callie's advice rings through my mind - and as I look at him, I do see a different person than the one I met. I see a teenage boy who lost his father and all the comfort he had, left to fend for himself in a world he didn't ask for. I see a man who lost his passion and one who is dying to find it again. I see a person who is searching desperately for connection and has found it with someone who is intent on pushing him away. Looking at his face, I see my husband for everything he is.

I cup his jaw and he blinks softly, finally closing his eyes against my touch. He leans his cheek against one palm before opening his eyes back up, staring softly into mine. I move to kiss his forehead with purpose, pulling away only to wrap my arms around his shoulders and pull him close for a tight hug. He breathes against me, grip secure around my lower back, and rests his forehead on my sternum. It's nice, having him near, and I think it makes him feel protected. It's probably been a long time since he was allowed to let his guard down.

"Thank you," he says softly. "I didn't deserve that."

I stroke the back of his head with my fingertips, soft and barely there. I stare out the window and take a deep breath as I say, "Yes, you did."


	10. Chapter 10

**JACKSON**

I feel dirty from what happened at Studio Paris. It was a mistake, it was unlike me, and I let the alcohol get to my head. That's not say it was a drunken decision, it can't be blamed entirely on alcohol, but it did its job of barring the logic from entering my brain. I don't want Alexandra - not in the slightest. I want April. I want April, but she's intent on keeping me at a distance, and that was enough to push me in the other direction. It wasn't the right thing to do, but there's no taking it back now. It happened.

But having April's body in my arms is better than any other physical gratification I can think of. She smells lovely - light and airy - and she's soft in all the right places. With my arms wrapped around her lower back and my cheek resting over her heartbeat, my loose heartstrings begin to pull together into a tight drum, intact once more. As she strokes the back of my head, I close my eyes and let out a long breath. There's no denying that this is right where I'm supposed to be.

She didn't have to go outside and clear my name, but she did. She could've smeared me and debilitated our foundation, but she didn't do that either. Instead, she defended my name and made sure they had nothing of substance to put me in a bad light. I'm not sure of the correct way to thank her or if she'd even accept my gratitude at this point.

She's not moving away, though. I have her near for the first time in what feels like forever, though we've been back in the city for barely a day. She continues to hold me, arms wrapped around my head, and I lean into her in a way I haven't let myself do with anyone since my father died. Even after I hurt her, she's taking care of me. I don't understand why, because I know she's angry. But she hasn't left. I'm so used to people leaving; I don't know how to process this. I don't know how to move forward. I only know failures in relationships - I'm not well-versed in communicating through issues. No one's ever stayed before. I've never been worth it.

"I'm not good with feelings," I say, gathering the courage to use my voice. "Talking about them, or… or having them. I never get it right." I blink slowly, staring at the fabric of the dress over her chest. It lies comfortably atop the swell of her breasts, just low enough to put her freckles on display. "I don't have a good reason as to why I did what I did," I continue. "But I think a part of me made that choice so you would feel the hurt that I'm feeling."

She pulls away, holding my shoulders while looking into my eyes with a hard stare. "What do you mean?" she says. "How are _you_ hurt?"

I frown, wondering how she still doesn't know after I told her how much her lie gutted me. "I explained it to you," I say. "Your lie upset me, April. The fact that you would lie in the first place instead of telling me that you're not ready to discuss the truth. Do you know how long I've spent being lied to? Nearly my entire life. My father was the last person who ever told me some semblance of the truth. I thought I could count on you for much of the same."

"I'm not your father, Jackson," she says. "I didn't come here to save you."

"I'm not asking you to save me," I say. "I would never."

"It sure sounds like that's what you're asking me to do," she says.

"It's not," I defend. "In the life I lead, I never know who to believe. Who's sugarcoating the truth to get on my good side, or get the in with my family. I thought it was different with you, but knowing that I was wrong kills me. You left my heart out to dry, April, and I still can't understand why."

"Of course you can't," she says, fire in her eyes. "You keep talking like I've lied to you around every corner when that is just not the case. I told you about the way my life used to be, even the things I was ashamed about. I told you about my dad and how hard it was when he died. You know all about my sisters; I even let you meet them! I let you in in so many different ways, Jackson. But you're constantly asking for more that I just can't give."

"You can trust me," I say. "I told you that I trust you and that hasn't changed. You still inspire me. You still make me want to create. I look and you and… I feel something. That's never happened to me before." Something changes in her face - it softens a bit and I feel more welcomed. "It's hard for me to believe I'm the only one between us who feels like that."

She's quiet for a long time, looking down and rubbing circles on my shoulders with her thumbs. Finally, she takes a deep breath to say, "You're not." She lifts her head and watches me soberly, pressing her lips together. "But I'm not used to letting people in," she says, speaking slowly. "I'm used to protecting myself."

"You don't have to," I say, overlapping her hands with mine. "I'm your husband. I can protect you."

She looks away again, smiling breathily with disbelief. I can tell she doesn't know how to process what I've said, and I'm honestly not sure where that sentiment came from. "That's not what I mean, Jackson," she says. "I've done just fine protecting myself for my whole-"

"But you don't have to shoulder that weight anymore," I say. "I'm telling you that you can let those walls down. No one's going to hurt you, April."

She takes a quick breath that makes the muscles in her neck visible. She reaches up to hold it and bites her lip, deep in thought. "Once I tell you what happened," she says. "Whenever that may be… you won't look at me the same."

Her entire face falls as she says those words - it's clear she believes them. "That's not true," I say, reaching up to hold her face and trace her cheekbone with my thumb.

"Yes, it is," she says, sniffling. "And contrary to what you might think, I do care about you. And because of that, I care about how you see me." She blinks hard, warding off tears. "I don't want you - or anyone - to know what I did." She looks away and steps back, stepping out of my grip.

I stand up and level our playing field, eyes trained on her while she wipes her face. Her skin is blotchy and there are dark circles under her eyes; she's exhausted and it shows. "Why don't you lie down for a bit?" I offer. "I'll give you some time for yourself."

She looks at me, surprised, like that was the last thing she expected me to say. "Oh," she says. "Okay. Sure, thank you."

I nod curtly and give her a small smile, then head out of the room. I linger in the upstairs hall for a long while, listening to the shower turn on as she undoubtedly gets in, then wander past the east wing to a sector of the house I haven't been in for years and years. My studio.

When I open the door, it's like stepping back in time. This is the house I lived in as a boy, after all. Everything is how I left it nearly ten years ago, covered in dust to boot. The easels are still set up by the windows, but the paintings are sun-bleached beyond recognition. There are full, tattered sketchbooks lying on the countertops and dried, brittle paint brushes resting in glass jars. The smell is exactly how I remember it and, if I close my eyes, I can picture my father at my side. This place used to be his, and it was for as long as I used it. On the day he died, I locked it up and never came back in. It's strange now, being here. It's almost as if I'm not allowed. Back then, it was a rule that I wasn't to come in here without his accompaniment. It wasn't because he thought I would wreak havoc on the room, but because he was my partner in creating art. He was still teaching me; I was still learning. When he passed, he hadn't yet taught me everything he knew. I still had a long way to go and now I have to forge that path myself.

There's an urge to speak aloud to him, but I ignore it. That's delusional, to think he's somewhere where he can hear me. The reason I feel his presence is because I was so used to it as a boy, and he was always in close proximity in this part of the house. It's not because his spirit is here or something otherworldly like that.

I'm an adult now. I wonder what he would think if he knew the type of person I've grown to be. Shame riddles my veins when I realize that, in some aspects of my life, he might not be all too proud of me. He wouldn't like how my mother and I revolve around money or the lavish ways in which we live - one mansion was always more than enough for him. The one my mother lives in now is extra, he would think, and unnecessary. He would want more of our money to go to charity and for us to connect as a family.

Though he was disapprove of the lifestyle I've grown into, I know for a fact he wouldn't disapprove of April. He would be head over heels for her, and that's a quality in which we share. He would think that she's capable of wonderful things, instills values in me that he was trying to, and brings me back to earth when I need it. He would say that I could learn from her hardship and show her that a life without suffering is possible. I'm intent on giving her as much - I will make him proud on that front.

I pick up a sketchbook and leaf through it, finding old drawings that are barely there, faded with age. I take a lasting look around the room and make it a point to redress it - I'll clean everything up and reinstate the quality it once held so I can come in and work when inspiration strikes. I can't always stand at the foot of the bed while April sleeps, a hotel notepad balanced in my hands. I need a workspace and this is perfect. I want to show it to her when she's ready, when I'm ready. Not now.

Before I leave, I pick up a guitar in the corner and dust it off, holding it like I would a newborn child. It feels fragile and delicate, like any errant move might break its neck, but it's simultaneously familiar and refreshing. I haven't played for years, but when I strum the out-of-tune strings, I can remember the way the calluses felt on my fingers. It won't take long for them to regrow.

I twist the knobs on the headstock to tune it and try the sound again, finding the sound much more pleasing. It's not perfect, it's been sitting for much too long to be perfect, but it'll do for what I want to use it for. I carefully step out of the studio and make my way back to the master bedroom, trying to recall the chords and notes that are necessary to play the song running through my mind. It reminds me of her. Ever since the moment she became more than just someone my mother hired, she made me think of this song.

April left the bedroom door open and when I peek in, I see she's asleep. She's wearing a long t-shirt and a pair of orange underwear, resting on her side with her knees bent. There's something small and blue tucked close to her chest, and it lights something in my memory. That was with her when she first arrived, and she protected it like it was precious. It had been folded then and now it's free - it looks like something of a blanket.

I don't study it for too long though, because I want to get these notes out. I play slowly, taking the song at half-speed, and sing softly. " _Blackbird singin' in the dead of night… take these broken wings and learn to fly_ ," I sing, taking my time in walking close to the bed. She doesn't stir - her side stays rising and falling slowly as she's deeply asleep. " _All your life… you were only waiting for this moment to arise_." I can't help but smile as I watch her, so peaceful, so immersed in her own world. I keep strumming, standing directly next to the bed now, and I think she starts to hear me. " _Blackbird singin' in the dead of night… take these sunken eyes and learn to see… all your life… you were only waiting for this moment to be free_." She inhales deeply then, rising to the surface. Her arms tighten around her chest, pulling the blue fabric close, and she slowly rolls onto her back to look at me. Even though her eye contact makes my heart plummet, I keep singing. " _Blackbird fly, blackbird fly… into the light of a dark, black night_."

She smiles blearily, eyes still half-closed. She rubs one with her fist and watches me fumble with the strings, still getting used to the way it feels to play again. " _Blackbird fly…_ " she sings, her voice quiet and light. " _Blackbird fly… into the light of a dark, black night…_ "

I finish out the chords and set the guitar off to the side while keeping my feet planted firmly where they are. "You know that song," I say.

She nods, blinking slowly. "You can't carry a tune," she says, teasing me.

"That's why I have you," I say, which makes her smile bigger.

For a moment we stay looking at each other, gauging the next move that neither of us are able to predict. In an instant, she seems to realize that she still has the blue fabric in her grip, so she subtly slips it under a pillow and I pretend not to notice. It's clearly not something she wants to call attention to, and I respect that. "If you wanna join me, you can," she says, scooting over to create more room.

"Oh," I say, making more space but setting the guitar on the floor. I get settled next to her on the mattress and lie on my side so we're face-to-face. Not close and touching like we'd gotten used to, but good enough for right now. Just being close to her is enough to put me in a higher spirits.

"I didn't know you could play guitar," she says, both hands tucked under her chin. "Is there anything you can't do?"

"Well, I'm not a great cook," I say. "Also, golf is not my strong suit."

"A rich man unable to play golf," she says, tone light. "An oxymoron if I ever heard one. I'm so sorry to hear that."

"I'll live," I say.

Her eyes move about my face and I try to keep up with their path. It's difficult, though, and even more so trying to read her mind. I have no idea what's going on inside her head, though I wish I did. "You're still good," she says. "How long has it been since you played?"

She caught on. I told her that it had been since my father passed that I last was able to draw, paint and play the piano. I can only assume she put the pieces together and knew it had been quite a while she I picked up the guitar as well. "He was teaching me," I say, letting the words come slowly. "When he died. He had been giving me lessons. That's one of the few songs I had time to learn."

"Oh," she says, face faltering. "We don't… we don't have to talk about it. I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"You couldn't have," I say. "But I don't mind talking about it. Not with you. It's been a very long time since I was able to talk about him at all." She gives me a wary look. "And I'm not expecting a trade, April," I say.

"Sorry," she breathes.

"You don't have to be sorry," I say. "I'm just trying to get better at reading your mind."

She scoffs. "Good luck with that."

I smile a bit. "I was in the studio just now. The one where my father and I used to go to practice art. Draw, paint, what have you."

"Did being in there remind you of him?" she asks, cutting straight to the point.

"Of course it did," I say. "It smelled just the same. Everything was in its place, which means no place at all. He wasn't much one for tidiness and order like my mother is. He always said that the studio was our place to be messy, to be artists. In there, we were free."

She reaches out and touches my cheek, resting her palm over it. She trails her fingers over my jaw and runs her thumb through my trimmed beard, eyes never leaving mine. She likes what I'm saying, I can tell. "What sorts of things did you used to make?" she asks.

"I've always liked to draw people," I say. "But no one's pulled me in like you do."

She breaks eye contact and the movement of her hand slows. There's a vein in her forehead that barely shows, but as her pulse speeds up I can see the blood beating through her skin. She traces my lower lip with the pad of her finger and watches my mouth, and I can tell her thoughts are whirring at warp speed. "The reason…" she begins, but falters. She takes a deep breath and steels herself. "What you did with Alexandra hurt me," she says, and I feel the sting inside my own chest. "And the reason it did is because…" She can't seem to get herself straight. She keeps stopping and rewording, rewiring the ideas as they come through. Finally, I understand that it isn't easy for her - opening up like this - and she's genuinely trying. I make it a point to devote all of my attention to catching every last syllable that comes from her lips. "Because I know our marriage isn't normal, and we don't love each other. We didn't get married for that reason. But… you were right earlier when you said that I have feelings in this, too. I don't know how you knew that, but somehow you did. I don't know how to explain them nor do I want to right now, but you should know that much. I care for you, and I care about you. Sometimes, very deeply, I think. But most of the time, I don't know. And…" She lifts her lashes to look right into my eyes. "At the end of the day, legally, you're my husband." Her eyebrows come together with concentration. "More than legally, too. You share your home with me; we share a life. I gave you my body and I thought I had all of yours." She pauses. "I missed you last night, Jackson. That's what it comes down to. I missed you and you were with another woman. That's why I'm hurt."

"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. "I know that probably doesn't mean much because I allowed it to happen, but I am sorry. And it will never happen again. I do take our marriage very seriously. Coping with my pain in the way I did was wrong. I don't consider myself immature, but I acted as such and I'm better than that. I'm a better husband than that. I was in pain, but that was no way to deal with it."

"Thank you," she whispers. "And I'm sorry, too, for hurting you. I shouldn't have lied, I know. There's no excuse and I'm not going to make one. I should have just stayed quiet. I'm not ready to give that part of myself away, but I could have just said that. I didn't mean to hurt you. I was wrong, too."

I nod softly, taking this all in. There's not been many instances in my life where a fair and honest communication has taken place. And, it seems, for the first time, something like that has happened. This might be the first moment where our union has resembled marriage or something close to it. "Thank you," I say, dragging my fingertips down the length of her arm. "I missed you, too, last night. I shouldn't have dealt with it the way I did, but I was trying to forget about-"

"Shhh…" she says, touching my lips in order to make me stop talking. "You don't need to say any more. We're okay now, I promise. I'll try not to hurt you again if you can say the same."

"Of course," I say.

"That means no more hurting my ears with your awful singing," she says, a smile sneaking onto her lips.

"Hey," I say, moving her hand away from my mouth. "That was straight to the heart." She laughs and takes my hand to bring it close to her face, kissing the palm while still looking in my eyes. "I guess that means I can't be Elvis for the Halloween ball."

She raises her eyebrows and drops my hand. "What are you talking about, Halloween ball?" she says, looking dubious.

"Exactly what I said," I say. "Maybe I can be Elvis, then."

"Since when did you start joking?" she asks, eyes lit up as I lift to hover over her body. She holds either side of my face and grips tightly, laughing as our noses touch.

"I have a great sense of humor," I say.

"That's up for debate," she says. "So, tell me about this ball."

I lower down to rest my weight on her and she adjusts accordingly, winding her arms around my shoulders while I lay my head on her chest. Her heart beats beneath my ear and I curl one arm around the small of her back while the other hand traces shapes on her bicep. "My mother is very passionate about the holiday," I explain. "It's a costume party, essentially. With music, dancing, food and drinks."

"Ooh," April says. "Drinks."

"I'm not ruining another Gucci tie for you," I say, and that makes her chest bounce with laughter.

"So, no, you will not go as Elvis," she says. "That's embarrassing."

"I'm only kidding," I say. "We were already given our costume assignments, anyway. We'll be going as royalty."

She lets out a long breath, followed by a groan. She picks up my head to look at me and says, "Am I going to have to wear a corset?"

I can't help my smirk. "Most likely," I say.

"I am dreading this," she says, and I move higher in order to press my lips to hers. Her crinkled expression soon turns to one that's much more open, and she eventually parts her lips for me. When my tongue touches hers, she smiles before pulling away with a flush painted on her cheeks. "How did a conversation about Halloween turn into this?" she asks.

"I haven't kissed you for far too long," I say, still cupping her jaw with one hand. "Come back. I have a lot to make up for."

She giggles and lets me taste her mouth as I kiss her - thoroughly and passionately. Her eyelashes flutter as her body relaxes, and my pride swells knowing that this heat between us is something that hasn't been lost. When she weaves her fingers through my hair in order to keep me close, I have her in the palm of my hand. "I liked who we were on our honeymoon," she breathes, sighing as her lips move against mine. "Remember, how you said?"

"I remember," I say, skimming a hand down her side to land on her bare thigh. Her skin is smooth and silky; I can't help but run my fingers everywhere they can reach.

"I liked having sex with you," she continues. "I liked it a lot." I lift up to create space between us so I can look into her eyes. "Was that just… was that just a one-time honeymoon thing?" she asks.

"Not if you don't want it to be," I say.

"I don't," she whispers. I grin and kiss her neck, smiling against her skin as she stretches her body under mine. She drags her fingernails over the back of my neck and gives me chills, forcing my hips to buck against hers. "Let's have make-up sex," she says, speaking directly into my ear. After she says the words, though, she pushes me by my shoulders to look at me with a stern expression. "But I want you to shower first."

Humiliation bubbles inside me because I know she's right. I don't want any trace of what happened left on my body when I give it to her. "Join me," I say, and I can tell the statement catches her off guard.

"In the shower?"

I nod and say, "No place better. You can make sure every inch is washed."

She blushes and I sit up to give her room to do the same. She keeps an eye on me as we wordlessly make our way to the bathroom, and after I turn the water on and close the door the room begins to steam instantly. She undresses bashfully, shoulders curved with her hands covering what's below her waist, but I do so with confidence. I throw my dirty clothes into the closet and walk unabashedly to the shower, which makes her roll her eyes with a sardonic-sounding laugh. "I've never seen a man strut like you do," she says.

"I'd be surprised if you met a man who could do much of anything I do," I say, pulling her under the water with me.

She leans her head back and soaks her hair, closing her eyes in the process. With my arms draped around her lower back, I can't help but kiss her neck in the position she's in. She's too tempting for me to do anything but touch her. "I don't know how to respond when you say stuff like that," she admits, voice sounding from beneath my lips.

"Say nothing," I say. "And let me prove it to you without words."

She insists on washing my body before anything happens, and I agree wholeheartedly. She soaps up a loofah and runs it slowly over my skin, scrubbing in some places and trailing through the suds with her fingers in others. Once I'm free of my sins, I get a good grip on the backs of her thighs, about to lift her up and press her against the wall when she stops me with her voice. "Wait," she says, one hand flat on my chest. "Condom. Get a condom."

"Shit," I say, stepping out of the glass enclosure briefly to grab one from the medicine cabinet. I've already ripped open the package upon coming back, but she takes the latex from me and sinks to her knees with a lascivious look in her eyes.

As she begins at the head and rolls it on, she doesn't look away from my face. "This is mine," she says, an undertone of power in her tone. She stands up again, leaning against the slick shower wall while grabbing the back of my neck and waiting for me to lift her. When I do, I waste no time in sinking inside her with one swift motion, mouth attached to her nipple. She digs her nails into my shoulder and says, "You're mine."

"Say it again," I grunt, hips gyrating slowly against hers in a refined, calculated motion.

"You're mine," she repeats, tossing her head back as her mouth falls open. "And if you let another woman put her hands on you again, I will fucking kill you both."

"Jesus Christ," I moan, face in her neck as I grab two handfuls of her ass. "Fuck, April." I'd forced myself to stop thinking about how amazing it felt to be with her - not just to fuck, but to have sex, to make love. I've never made love to someone; my experiences with sex have come nowhere near this level. When April and I are together intimately, we connect in a way I had no idea was possible. No words are needed past a certain point, we nearly morph into one person - one soul, one body.

Because of this, we come at the same time. There's no rushing to get her there as I hit my peak - she finds her way organically and the sounds she makes only intensify my orgasm. I pull her body tighter against mine, wrapping my arms as far as they'll go around her and trapping her in, body bucking around and inside hers. She whimpers against the side of my face, trying desperately to catch her breath as the shower jet pours on both of us.

"What I said," she pants while coming down, still wrapped in my arms. "I'm sorry… I-I don't usually swear like that. I don't know where that came from."

"You got possessive," I growl, biting her shoulder. "I liked it."

"Okay," she says, lifting my face to hold it between her palms. As I look into her eyes, she's dead serious. "Then I meant it."

…

"That hurts! I can't breathe."

"It's called the price of beauty, my dear."

"I don't want to pay it!"

Another yank on the corset and April lurches forward, the strings in Calliope's hands. She gasps, mouth falling open in an expression that doesn't help in keeping my mind out of the gutter. "It's just for a few hours," Calliope says. "Suck it up."

"Ow!" April exclaims, holding her waist that's grown even tinier with the mechanism tightened around her. She looks to me, eyes desperate. "Please, god, tell her to stop. She's manhandling your wife."

I chuckle and walk closer, adjusting the heavy cape around my neck in a way that suits me better. "It's for the look," I say, eyeing her. "And you look stunning."

"You said I looked stunning before I put any of this on," she grumbles. "I don't see why I can't just go as 'girl who really doesn't wanna be here.'"

I laugh again as she grits her teeth - Calliope is tying the knot at the bottom of the corset and finishing her up. "You'll enjoy it once we arrive," I assure her. "You love parties."

"I _love_ champagne," she says. "Don't get it twisted. But it's unlikely I'll be able to fit anything in my stomach with this on, let alone breathe all night!"

Calliope pinches April's shoulder lightly before coming over with an armful of her queenly dress. "You sure are a complainer, aren't you?"

"Is it wrong to enjoy breathing?" April grumbles, barely moving her lips.

"Arms up," Calliope says, and April obliges. The dress flows over her body as her head comes out, and Calliope helps to bring out her ornately curled hair from the collar. "Headpiece on."

"Headpiece!" April echoes, but allows Calliope to put it on and make sure it has no room to budge.

"Now, close your eyes for touch-ups," she says, and again April does as she's told. Calliope swipes over her face with powder and lipstick, creating a royal look if I've ever seen one. April has been dressed in modern formal wear before, but seeing her like this ignites something entirely new in me. She looks like Marie Antoinette, but beneath the layer of demureness is a powerful quality that goes unspoken. There's pure force beyond her beautiful face and I'm sure I won't be the only one to notice it tonight.

"The car is outside, if you're ready," I say, extending my arm for hers.

"Isn't the party at your mother's house?" she asks, gripping my arm while trying to keep her balance with the wide-skirted dress. "I feel like a cake topper, by the way."

"Well, you look nothing like one," I say, stroking her hand. "And yes, it is. But she doesn't live next door, you realize. We live on the same property, but her house is nearly five miles away. We'll drive."

"Right," she says, leaning on me as we descend the stairs.

"Ah, the royal couple," Antonio says as he waits at the bottom of the stairs. "Happy Halloween, my lieges."

"You know _The Addams Family_?" April murmurs, speaking close to my ear. I nod. "I think Antonio felt inspired by Lurch."

I close my eyes and keep my laughter at bay, given that Antonio is still staring us down. "You're awful," I say.

"This is probably his favorite holiday," she continues. "He can be as creepy as he wants and no one can say a thing."

"Have an enchanted evening," Antonio says once we reach the bottom of the steps. "Can I expect to see you two returning later?"

"Yes, but please don't wait up," I say, using a firm tone of voice. He's known me since I was a little boy, so it's common for him to overstep boundaries now that I'm a grown man. I don't think I'll ever stop being 'Robert Avery's son' to him. I've still not grown into being 'Jackson Avery' in his eyes.

"Yes, sir," he says with a nod. "Enjoy yourselves."

Once we're out in the fresh air, I help April into the car and she can't stop laughing over the fact that she can barely see around her skirt. It doesn't take long to get to my mother's mansion, though, and once we do the whole place is already lit up with activity and sound.

"The party started without us," April says from behind bunches of fabric.

"We're fashionably late," I say, getting out and going around to her side. I help her to stand and straighten her outfit, and she takes as big of a breath as possible while standing up impeccably straight.

We make our way inside and greet a few people, and soon my mother catches my eye from across the room. As soon as she does, she stops talking to whomever she's with and makes her way over wearing a cool expression. "The king and queen have arrived," she notes, acknowledging April with her eyes. "Happy Halloween. Your looks have already stolen the show. You've taken people's breath away."

"They're not alone there," April says quietly.

"What was that, dear?" my mother asks her, and I fight a smile.

"Oh, nothing," April says. "I was just wondering if you had any champagne?"

"Of course we do," my mother says, like it's a silly question to ask. "Look around for a staff member with a tray of flutes. You shouldn't have to look hard."

"The house looks wonderful," I comment, knowing how much that will mean to her.

She beams. "Thank you, son," she says. "Decorators have been working tirelessly for the past few days. It came out just as I envisioned it. If you take a look around past the main area, you'll see that certain rooms have themes of their own. So, beware."

"Glad to know it," I say. "I wouldn't expect anything less from you."

"Have fun," she says. "Celebrate. It's why we're here."

With that, she walks off and leaves me to lead April into the ballroom where music is playing and drinks are being taken around the room. "I spy with my little eye!" April says, freeing my arm to trail after a staff member with champagne. "Be right back." She grabs two flutes from the tray and downs one in a gulp, and she's nursing the other as she makes her way back to me. "I was gonna give you this," she says. "But I got too tempted. So sorry, baby."

I smile a bit to myself at the pet name but I don't call attention to it. I don't want her to take it back. She's finished with her drink in less than a few minutes, of which I've spent studying her profile as she watches people dance.

"No one's dressed as anything scary," she says. "All of these costumes look like they cost an arm and a leg. What's the fun in that?"

"I really don't know," I answer honestly, taking care of the empty flute for her. "But would you like to dance?"

She finally looks my way and I notice her face has turned a light shade of pink. It's adorable. "I'd be delighted," she says in a fake accent, and takes my outstretched hand.

We meld with the other bodies on the dance floor perfectly, picking up the steps as if we've been dancing together for years. She's good - she learned quickly - and her strong suit is being able to hold eye contact without ever missing a step.

Her waist is firm because of the corset and I keep my hand planted where it is, the other softly gripping her hand. I maneuver around her skirt and keep us flowing nicely with the baroque music, listening to her breathy smile as I kiss her cheek when the song finishes. I let my lips linger, breathing in the scent of her, and she gives me a hug with her arms wound around my neck. "Can we find somewhere to sit down, your highness?" she asks, her voice curling against my skin. "I'm already sore."

"Of course," I say, keeping an arm around her as we exit the dance floor and the ballroom entirely. This mansion is newer, meaning I don't know it like I know my own, but we find a quiet place eventually. There's a bench in the hallway where only a few other people are wandering, and we're alone enough to be satisfied. "So, what do you think of this so far?" I ask her once we sit down.

She expertly removes her headpiece in a way I didn't know was possible and instantly seems lighter. I can't imagine it was easy keeping it up - her neck must have been exhausted. "It's festive, that's for sure," she says. "I've never seen anything like this done for Halloween."

"No?"

She shakes her head. "Halloweens for us were always for trick-or-treating. Obviously, Mom couldn't afford to buy costumes for all of us, so she made them when we were really little. And once we got older, me and Libby made our own and ones for the little girls. There were many, many years that I was a ghost if we had a spare sheet." She giggles. "I made the cutest little fairy costume for Alice when she was two or three. I'll find a picture whenever we go back to the house. I was so proud. She loved it so much."

I can't help but smile as I listen to her recount the memory. "That sounds nice," I say. "I like that your family had traditions."

She meets my eyes. "Well, yours did too, didn't it?" she asks, making a grand gesture with both arms. "This is something you do every year. That's a tradition."

I turn the corners of my lips down in a frown. "This… no," I say. "It's a fine party now. But it's been going on for my whole life. So, yes, it's a tradition - but as you can probably imagine, for a seven-year-old, not a pleasant one. I detested these parties, having to dress up as a prince or a knight in order to look elegant instead of scary. I wanted to be a ninja or a zombie like my friends got to be. I didn't want my nanny to put me in an expensive outfit and force me to play nice with the adults. I used to dread Halloween."

"I would, too, in your shoes," she says, leaning against me. "This wouldn't be fun at all for a kid. It's barely fun for me now."

I chuckle a bit and she does, too. When she leans on my shoulder, I wrap an arm around her and kiss the side of her head, tasting hairspray. "I don't want this for a child," I say, testing the waters. I'm not sure what makes me say it, but the words are coming and there's no stopping them. "I'd love to make our children's costumes from scratch and go trick-or-treating like a normal family. Like you did. I don't want to bring them to these parties when they're young."

Directly following my statement, April sits up with a rigid spine. She stares ahead, unblinking, and the color drains from her face. She keeps her eyes trained on the floor without a response for a long moment, fingers curling through the heavy fabric of her skirt. I wonder if she's breathing, because I can't tell.

"Bathroom," she says suddenly, breaking from her trance without looking at me. "Is there… is there a bathroom?"

"Down the hall and to your left," I say, eyes trained on her as she gets up to leave. "Do you need help with your dress?" I ask.

"I'm fine, thank you," she says without turning around, heels clicking against the marble as she fades from view.

Once I'm alone, I lean forward with my elbows on my knees and shake my head. No matter the situation, I almost always seem to ruin it with something I say. I hadn't thought the sentiment was too heady, but my words definitely triggered something within her. Her aura changed in an instant. She became sullen and hazy compared to the lighthearted manner in which she walked in. I curse myself, knowing I can never get anything right, even when I try my hardest.

I'm still lost in my thoughts when I hear a bloodcurdling scream come from down the hall. At first it doesn't pique my interest, given this is a Halloween party after all, but when I hear my name shouted in much of the same tone, I fly to my feet. That's April's voice.

"Shit," I say aloud, racing down the hall in the direction she went. I find my way to the bathroom and push open the door, calling, "April?"

I catch sight of her dress first, standing like a sentient being in the corner - without her in it. As I scan the room, I notice it's set up like a murder scene complete with blood over almost every surface. On the mirrors, the sinks, and spread everywhere on the floor. And when I see April amidst it all, my heart stops in my chest.

"I-I took my dress off because it-it got blood on it and…" she sobs, crumpled in the corner wearing nothing but her slip and corset. "I fell," she continues, bringing her arms up. They're covered in fake blood - she's entirely soaked from her hair and face to her shins and ankles. It's saturated the white fabric of her slip a deep crimson, and she's never looked more terrified. "Blood all over me," she says, eyes wide and distant. She lifts her hands to her face and turns the palms in as if she's seeing them for the first time. "There's blood all over me!" she screams, entire body shaking with the power of her voice.

"It's fake," I say, kneeling down to try and get her up from the floor. "April, it's fake blood. This is for Halloween, it's-"

"All over the bathroom, I'm gonna have to clean it," she says, shaking harder than I knew was possible. "It hurts, it hurts so bad. I'm bleeding and it didn't work," she says. I gather her into my arms and she collapses against my chest, but her knees aren't strong enough to keep her up, so I lift her. "You cut me and it didn't even work!" she shouts.

"I didn't cut you," I say. "You're not bleeding, it's fake," I say. "It's just for show. You're okay."

But she's not here with me, I can see that much in her eyes. It's terrifying, how far away she is - I don't know how to get her back. "We have to do something," she wails.

"Do you want to go to the hospital?" I ask, grasping for straws.

" _No_!" she screams, louder than I've ever heard anyone scream. Tears are pouring down her face and creating rivulets over the thick layer of blood on her cheeks. "It's too late and they can't know and I just need you to sew it up! It hurts and we have do something about the baby!"

I look her dead in the eyes and try to call her back. "April," I say sternly. "What baby?"

In that moment, something clicks. She looks at herself like she doesn't recognize a thing, then meets my eyes with a horrified expression. "Jackson," she breathes, and all I can do is nod. "Where's Matthew?"

"I… I don't know who that is," I say, growing more desperate with every passing second.

Her chin trembles and she buries her face in my neck, crying so powerfully that I have to lean against the wall and sink to the floor to sit the pool of fake blood. She tightens her arms around my neck and bawls for all she's worth, lessening the sounds of the party and every thought running through my head. I don't think there's much to be kept anymore - I just bore witness to the pain she's been fiercely trying to hide. None of this makes sense, but I'll hold her for as long as it takes. Covered in fake blood, I hold her on the cold bathroom floor until she stops sobbing, now a crumpled, sticky mess in my arms who's looking up at me from the crook of my elbow. She breathes slowly, eyes trained on mine, and I just cradle her. I don't ask for anything, I don't speak. All I can do is wait for her to come back and try to figure out what should happen once she does.


	11. Chapter 11

_DISCLAIMER: This chapter includes very heavy subject matter that some could find triggering. Without giving it away, there is a tragic death described. I always try to handle my stories with grace and I'll do the same for this, but if this isn't your thing or puts you off in any way, please don't hesitate to stop reading or skip this chapter._

…

 **APRIL**

My world is blurry around the edges as I've gone slack in Matthew's arms, one hand on his chest and the other tucked near my side. My slip is covered in blood and my lower belly sears with a white-hot pain I can't describe. I rest my head against him and sob for all I'm worth, wondering what is going to happen now.

"You're okay, you're okay," he says, and when I look up I see that it isn't Matthew at all who's holding me - it's Jackson.

The visual evidence doesn't help much, though. "Matty," I murmur, something thicker than confusion inside my head. I lift my hands and realize what they did, then crumble all over again. "Matty, what did we do?"

"April, it's me," Jackson says, and I know that. I know it's him, but at the same time, I don't. This isn't the first time I've been held by strong arms on a bloody bathroom floor, and I can't get my thoughts straight. When I close my eyes, I'm in the small bathroom at the old house, crammed between the toilet and the wall. When I open them, we're in a ritzy powder room with slippery, red goo all over the floor. None of this makes sense. If I'm not living inside the memory, how is my pain so real? "It's me, it's Jackson."

"I know," I whisper, turning my face into his chest so I can't see the blood anymore. "But we have to do something about… about…"

"We need to get you home," he says, swiftly standing with me in his arms.

"We have to… we can't go home," I say, barely able to keep my head up as he walks towards the bathroom door. Once he pushes it open, the harsh light hits my eyes and makes me squint - sounds from the party are still rising and falling from the other room. "Not this way!" I shriek.

"April," he gasps, taken aback.

"Don't take me out this way," I plead, winding my arms around his neck to hold as tightly as I can. "They'll see me."

"All of the guests are in the ballroom," he says. "The car is right out front. It'll be quicker this way, we can get you home faster."

"My sisters!" I shrill. "My sisters must be home. The light. They can't see me like this. Just take me out the back, _please_. I don't want them to get scared."

I look at him desperately to find his eyes glassy and shrouded with confusion. "April, your sisters aren't…"

"Please, just turn around!" I say, trying to fight my way out of his arms to get there myself. When I do, though, the pain in my abdomen comes back and I start to cry. "Please, Jackson, please."

"Alright," he says, giving in and going back the way he came. I close my eyes as we make our way through long, twisting hallways towards the back entrance. Once we're outside, the cold air assaults my skin and I curl against him, shivering.

"I didn't want people to stare," I say, soaking in the silence. "They'll know what I did."

"Your sisters?"

"Everyone."

We walk for a while longer, having to go all the way around the house to get to the car, and I press a hand to my stomach and wince. "It hurts," I whimper.

"What hurts?" he asks, glancing at me while continuing to move.

"What you did," I say, letting my head fall again. "It didn't go deep enough. It was a mistake, Matty, we just should have waited… it hurts so bad. You said you would stitch it, and I'm still bleeding."

"April," Jackson says firmly. "I don't know who Matty is, but it's me. Jackson. You're with Jackson."

"I know," I breathe.

"Do you?" he says. "Who is this Matty… Matthew person?"

My face crumples as I start to cry again, neck gone slack so my head is tipped back to look at the sparkling stars above. I stare while trying to find one to focus on, tuning out all the questions Jackson is asking. With my eyes centered on a single star, I'm able to disappear from what I've done and how it's come back to haunt me. I don't give Jackson an answer though he expects one; instead, I concentrate on the throbbing pain in my stomach and the blood coating my skin.

Somehow, he lowers me into the car and I curl into the corner as he gets in, too. "Home, please," he says.

"No," I say, my voice coming out louder than I'd intended. "I need to go to Western and 65th."

"April," Jackson says. "That's too far south. Why do you need to go there? What's down there?"

"I just need to go to there," I say. "And we need to go fast." I wrap my arms around my waist and double over, teeth gritted. "I forgot the blanket. I was going to use that blue blanket," I say.

"You're not making any sense," he says.

"None of it makes any sense!" I say, fading in and out. "Please, just drive. I'm begging you. I need to get to Western and 65th."

There's a long pocket of silence until Jackson nods and gives the driver the go-ahead. I lean against the window and tuck my legs into my side, watching the city pass by as we make our way further and further south. The buildings get smaller, the lights grow dimmer, but the neighborhoods feel more like home. This is where I grew up; nothing is pretty, but it's exactly how I remember. We pass my high school, where I dropped out during my junior year. We pass the old church I haven't been back to since I was 15. We pass the medical center where I met Matthew, looking more dilapidated than I remember.

"McDonald's," I mutter, pointing as we get closer. "That one. I need to get out."

I reach for the door handle as the car is still moving, but Jackson yanks me back. He doesn't say anything, but shoots me a muddled look once the wheels stop. "What the hell is going on, April?"

"Let me go," I insist, pulling my arm away from him. "I want to do this alone. I don't want you to see."

He recoils, stunned, and I climb out of the car in my bloody slip and high heels. Instead of going inside the restaurant, I walk around to the dumpsters. The lids are open and they're not too full, and I freeze in place once I arrive. I rest my hands on the bars melded to the sides and stare inside. That's all I'm capable of. The smell isn't pleasant, but I can't leave.

I stand there for what feels like hours, joints locking, until Jackson comes to get me. He unfurls my fingers and leads me away, wrapping me tightly in his arms to get my shivering to stop. "What are you doing," he mutters. "Would you just tell me what's going on, please?"

"I don't know," I say, face in his neck. "But thank you for stitching me up. It doesn't hurt so much anymore."

After saying those words, I close my eyes and fall into a deep, black sleep with my head on his chest. I don't wake up when he brings me inside or when he lays me down, but my mind shifts from rest into a myriad of dreams I can't control. Images flash across my eyelids like gunshots, blinding me with the force of their impact. A red, slippery bathroom. A towel shoved between my teeth. Matthew's hand clamped in mine. The scalpel in his hand, sutures after. His fingers and my lower half coated in blood. The smell of thick iron, the fuzziness inside my mouth. Physical exhaustion like I'd never known. Then silence. The silence was the worst part.

I wake up screaming, voice gone hoarse. I grip my lower belly, expecting that same fiery pain, but there's nothing. I don't know it could be possible for the pain to disappear, but it did. I'm still covered in blood, but without any physical discomfort. It's caking now, given it's been a few hours since it happened, but I can't believe I haven't washed it off yet. I begin to tremble, a scream swarming in the base of my throat, but Jackson places a hand on my shoulder before it bursts free. "I'm right here," he says. "I was waiting until you were awake to clean you up."

"I want it off," I say, standing up to yank the slip over my head. I crumple it up and throw it in the bathroom trash, Jackson coming behind me to run the water inside the clawfoot bathtub.

He's kneeling on the floor with one hand on the faucet, eyes on me as I stand there in my underthings, flakes of blood falling off my body with every breath. "Do you know where you are?" he asks warily.

I take a while to answer, but eventually I do. "Home," I say.

"Do you know what day it is?" he asks.

"All Saints' Day," I answer. "November first."

"Who am I?" he continues.

"Jackson," I say, both answering his question and mildly scolding him.

He looks towards the water, skimming his fingers over the surface as the tub fills. "It's ready," he says. "Come in."

I step out of my underwear and take off my bra, leaving them both in a small pile as I sink under the bathwater. It's nice and hot, turning a faded red color after only seconds of me being inside. The blood detaches from my skin without much scrubbing and I'm left to sit there among bits of it floating. I rest my head back against the tub and stare at a specific spot on the tile, wondering how it's possible that I'm not in pain. I remember it hurting so badly - for months following that night, the pain brought me back and made me relive it in visceral, cruel detail. Now that the stabbing sensation is gone, I don't know what to make of it. How can I relive the memory so clearly if that feeling isn't there to bring me back?

"Last night, I forgot the blanket," I say out of the blue. Jackson's attention switches over; he'd been staring at the floor where he's still sitting. "I meant to bring it." All he does is stare at me. He doesn't part his lips to speak, thoughts don't churn behind his eyes. All I get is a blank stare, and I don't know what I did to deserve that.

I lower myself further so my chin touches the surface of the water and feel my hair fan out around me. I rest my arms over my belly and brush the scar as I go, which makes me flinch away from myself. My eyes dart to Jackson, who's seemingly keeping his eyes off of me on purpose, and then look down at myself. I see a body I recognize - small chest, skinny legs, a belly with food in it for once. And beyond that, I see a mottled scar that spans from one hipbone to the other - directly below my belly button. The skin is raised and uneven, pinker than the rest of me, healed in a way that's far from pretty. It seems especially noticeable today, right now, but I resist the urge to cover it. Instead, I trace it with my pointer finger - back and forth, back and forth - until I feel something close to soothed.

"April, what happened last night?" Jackson asks, breaking the silence much later. The bathwater has begun to get cold and I haven't washed a single part of me. All I've been able to do is sit and stare, my mind slipping between the past and present. I can't keep anything straight. It's all blurry, but the memories are shiny like they're happening in real time. My mind is beyond control, and that's far from a good feeling. Whatever comes out of my mouth won't make sense, I know that for a fact.

"I don't want to say," I whisper, staring at my knobby knees while continuing to trace the scar with one finger.

"I think we need to talk about it," he presses. He's insistent, but not pushy. There's a gentleness about his voice that I appreciate.

"Why would you make me talk about it?" I reply. "You were there. You… you were there. You saw it all, Matty." I close my eyes and dig my fingernails into my kneecaps. "It wasn't just me. Don't ask me what happened like it wasn't your idea, too. Like you didn't drive us there." Jackson lets out a long sigh and I realize I've done it again - mixed them up. "Jackson," I say, covering my face with both hands. "I'm sorry. I know. I know you're not… I know."

"Will you just tell me what's going on?" he says. "I want to help you. And I can't when you keep going back to this… this _place_ inside your head that you can't get out of."

"I'm out of it now," I say, one hand on my belly to protect the scar.

"No, you're not," he says. "I can see it on your face, you're not. You're still there, wherever 'there' is, and I just want to know what happened."

My facial features pinch together as the flashes of red come back, the bursts of pain, the way my brain short-circuited to try and figure out what to do. Only one thing made sense, only one thing would save us, and that's what I had to do. _We_ had to do. I didn't do it alone, and I won't let him make me feel like I did. "It doesn't hurt anymore," I say, head turned to the side so not to look at him. I don't want to. I don't want the expression on his face to soak into my conscience. I don't like the way he's looking at me - like I'm crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm in pain, and I have been for a long, long time. "Why doesn't it hurt?"

"Why doesn't _what_ hurt?"

I take a shaky inhale and press both hands over the scar now, tears streaming down my cheeks to land in the seam of my lips. "Why do you keep asking?" I say. "You should know. You did it."

"April, I'm not Matty," Jackson says.

"I know," I whimper.

"Do you?" he demands, voice a bit raised.

"Stop yelling at me," I say, curling into myself.

After a beat passes, he lets out a long breath. "I'm sorry. I'm just…" His voice fades before he mutters, "Frustrated," then lifts up onto his knees. "Come here. Let's get you washed up."

He lathers shampoo between his hands and scrubs it into my hair, massaging my scalp while I sit there silent and confused. The inside of my head is a mess and I can't weave any of my thoughts into something coherent. Images and senses mold together, creating a hybrid of what happened five years ago and what I'm experiencing in the moment. I should have never gone into that bloody bathroom. If I wouldn't have seen it, I'd still be normal. I shouldn't have been at that party at all. I shouldn't have panicked and let Matthew slice me when my body worked everything out on its own. Without a scar, things would be easier to forget.

Jackson washes as much of me as he can reach and I let him. I sit with my arms wrapped around my knees in a catatonic state, listening to the sound of the water and my own breathing. After all the blood has been scrubbed from my skin and my hair is clean and soaked, he puts the loofah down and spends a moment just watching me. I don't turn to meet his eyes but I feel them on my face, and when he holds one side of my head to bring it closer, I don't fight. I let him pull me in and drop a firm kiss to my temple, lingering after. "Are we gonna be okay?" I rasp, admittedly unsure of who I'm talking to.

"We're going to be just fine," he answers, and I close my eyes. I rest for a moment then turn, looping my arms around his neck as he helps me out of the tub.

I stand there dripping until he hands me a towel, but I don't wrap it around my body quite yet. Instead, I stare at myself in the mirror - pointedly on the scar that's jagged across my lower belly. I trace it like I'd been doing in the tub and keep my eyes where they are, drawing the line over and over. "You did a good job," I murmur.

"Sure," Jackson says, and I realize once again that it's him.

"Sorry," I say, staring at the floor while making myself decent with the towel. "I know you're not… I know. I'm sorry." I meet his eyes. "I'm not crazy."

"I know," he says, one hand in the middle of my shoulder blades as he leads me out of the bathroom.

"I'm really not," I say. "I know you're not him. I'm just confused."

"I know," he says again, pulling open drawers to find loungewear for me. "Here, put these on. They're soft. You should rest."

I change clothes and he lingers, not watching me but seemingly confused about what to do next. When I look away from him, my brain goes haywire again as my object permanence seems to have flown out the window, and suddenly all I can think about is finding that blue blanket. "Where…" I murmur, throwing open the comforter. "Where is it?"

"What are you looking for?"

"I just need it," I say, frantically shoving things out of my path to locate it.

"Need what, April?"

"The blanket," I say. "We left it here. We were supposed to take it and we didn't, and I need it. I just want to hold it."

"You put it under the pillow yesterday," he notes.

I furrow my eyebrows. "Yesterday…" I muse. "You saw… yesterday? I didn't know you were here."

"I came in here and woke you up," he says. "You were sleeping with it. Remember, when I played _Blackbird_ for you?"

"Played for me?" I ask, and only then does the memory of Jackson with the guitar come back. Not Matty with any type of instrument. The only instruments he ever used were medical ones. Of course Matty didn't see me yesterday. I haven't seen him in years. "Oh," I say, trying to make up for the fact that I took too long to piece that together. "Right, yeah. I remember."

"Anyway, it's under the pillow," he murmurs.

I crawl onto the bed amongst the ruffled covers and find it exactly where he said it would be. I bunch it against my chest, breathing in its familiar smell, and feel comforted instantly. It's a little piece I have left of what I never had.

As I sit on my side of the bed and hold the empty blanket in my hands, everything falls into place - for good this time. I'm here in my married house with my husband watching me, never more confused in his life. I have a scar on my belly to show for what happened but nothing else. I'm here and the past is where I left it in the dumpster. Realizing that, I hold the small blanket between my hands and let my body convulse with sobs, wiping my tears with the soft fabric until Jackson makes a move to come closer. "I… no," I say, keeping him at a distance. It's the only way I'll be able to work through this. With him near, I'm afraid I'll only get confused again and I need to pull myself out - alone. "I just need to be by myself for a while, if that's alright."

"Sure," he says, sounding unsure as he backs away. I'm afraid that I've upset him and made him afraid of me. I'm worried that he thinks I'm crazy and I'm not. Deeply wounded, but not crazy.

"I'll come down in a little bit," I say through my tears.

"I'll have the chef make something," he says. "Take all the time you need."

I can tell by the look on his face that he'd rather I take more time than less. I'm sure he needs space, to be away from my messy thoughts and jumbled sentences, and I don't blame him. If it were me in his shoes, I'd feel the same.

I lay down with the blanket near my face and let it all out. In no way does it alleviate the pain from what I did, but it does something in bandaging it. Crying allows some to exit my body and seep elsewhere instead of bottling up to the point of explosion. I don't know another way to cope besides crying, but after a while I stopped letting myself do it. If I didn't put a limit on it back then, I would've spent the rest of my life weeping. I don't know if there's a way to heal after what happened and what I did. My life ever since has been spent punishing myself to some degree.

I fall into a light sleep with the blanket curled under my chin, woken by the sound of Catherine and Jackson talking downstairs. "What in the world happened last night?" she demands, and I open my eyes to her sharp tone. It makes me jump, like she's accosting me in this room instead of scolding her son all the way downstairs. "Do you know how much you and your missus upset my guests? They thought there was a real murder scene in that bathroom! The way you carried her out in a slip, Jesus Christ. Are you _trying_ to ruin us? You left her dress in the bathroom like you'd bent her over and taken her right there! God, you didn't, did you?"

"No," he says immediately. "We didn't… no, we weren't. That's not what happened."

"Then if you weren't having sex, I'd love to hear what actually occurred," she says, pressing the issue.

"It doesn't concern you," he replies, clipped.

"It happened under my roof, so in fact, it does," she argues. "I want to know why I had to have people cart that thousand-pound dress soaked in artificial blood out to the trash. That should've been saved. That was Versace, and she wasted it. A beautiful dress wasted on a mess of a girl."

"Don't," he growls.

"Then tell me what happened," she says.

 _Tell me what happened._

"It's more than just a question-answer situation," he says.

 _It's not that simple._

"Why was the bathroom in a worse state than it began? Did she have a fit?" she asks.

 _Why was there blood soaked into the grout on the bathroom floor? Did you hurt yourself?_

"It's not my business to tell you," he says.

 _I don't want to tell you._

"Jackson, I'm her mother-in-law. I'm not going to publicly smite her," she says.

 _Baby, I'm your mom. You can tell me anything._

"I don't fully understand it myself," he says.

 _You'll never look at me the same._

"Just try."

 _Don't say that. No matter what, I'll always love you._

"As far as I know, she was triggered by something. All the blood, I think. She fell into a panic attack of sorts, something like PTSD, and still hasn't come out of it. I don't know the reason, so don't bother asking," he says.

 _Please, don't be mad when I say it. Please, don't hate me._

I tune out the rest of their conversation, unable to stomach it even though I'm not physically involved. It's almost worse, not being there to use my voice and instead depending on him to do as much. He's right - he doesn't know any details to why I reacted how I did, but that has to change. Now that my mind is clearer, I have to let him in. There's no choice in the matter. The way I acted was too extreme not to offer an explanation. This was the last way in which I wanted it to happen, but there's not another option. I've never told the story before. The people who know only know because they were there when it happened or shortly thereafter. I don't know how I'll react in recounting it, or if I'll even be able to make it through. I don't know how he'll respond, but my best guess is that he'll hate me and realize I'm not a good person. I won't be surprised if he asks for a divorce, and I'll have to agree. Being married to him had just begun to feel nice, but I deserve to have it ripped away. I'm not a good person. Ever since age 16, I haven't been a good person. My good heart lasted until that one night.

I could do a thousand good deeds, be kind to everyone I meet, but it still wouldn't be enough to redeem myself. Nothing could possibly atone for the sin I committed. And even if there was something, I'm not sure I'd repent because I don't feel I could ever earn it. Whatever pain I'm in - constant pain, perpetual pain - it's present for a reason. It's my penance, and I hope I always carry it, no matter how heavy it gets.

When Catherine leaves, I get up to change my clothes yet again. I need something to put on that will force clarity - so I can tell myself I'm in the mansion; I'm Jackson's wife and no one's mother. I'm 21 years old, not 16. I'll talk to him in the kitchen, not a bathroom.

I put on a robe that's much too expensive - La Costa Del Algodon - beautiful as it flows over my body and rests in all the right places. I tie it loosely and put my hair up after splashing water on my face, waking myself up. I need to be present. I can't let my thoughts take control of my conscious and whisk me back to 2013. I need to be here with Jackson, even if it's the last time.

I walk down the stairs slowly, the blanket tucked under one arm. I hear Jackson in the kitchen listening to talk radio, and he lifts his head once I come through the doorway. For a moment we just watch each other, wondering what the next move is, then I take a few steps closer. He sets his stirring spoon down, lowers the volume of the radio, and places all of his attention on me. "I want to tell you about what happened to me," I say, then shake my head. It didn't come out right. I shouldn't have expected it to. "No. I want to tell you what I did."

He traces the rim of the mug that sits in front of him as the air changes. I'm not sure the direction of the shift, it's not something I can read, but something definitely changed. "Of course," he says. "Please, sit. I'll pour you a cup of coffee."

"No," I say, opening and closing my fingers overtop the granite counter. "No, thank you."

"April, you need something in your system," he presses. "You haven't eaten since midday. I'll make your favorite. How does a cup of oolong sound, with a little milk?"

I give in while staring at my fingers. "And sugar," I whisper. "Just a bit."

"I know," he replies, moving around the other side of the counter as he goes for the kettle. He pours water in with his back facing me and I study the muscles under his shirt, muscles I've run my fingers over and gotten to know intimately. I can't help but think - after I tell him what I'm about to tell him - will he let me near him again? After he knows, I won't be the same person anymore. There's no way I could be. "How are you feeling?" he asks a few beats later, after turning on the stove.

"I'm okay now," I respond, quietly. He turns around and looks at me much in the way I assume a psychiatrist might study their patient. "I am," I insist.

"Do you know my name?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. "It wasn't that I didn't before. I always knew you were Jackson and you weren't…" I clear my throat. "Him. But the memory kept forcing its way into my head and making me see everything differently. I never thought you were him. I just thought… I don't know. It doesn't make sense."

"Say what you need to say," he says. "Don't hold back. You won't help anyone if you hold back."

I sigh. "When I say things that are inside my head, they don't sound right," I say. "I was gonna say I never thought that you were him, I just thought he was you. But, see? I sound crazy."

"Don't use that word," he says. "It doesn't describe you and I don't like hearing you say it."

I chew the inside of my lip, the same place I've been worrying for the past few hours. It's been rubbed raw but I can't seem to stop. Physical pain is a good distraction from the hurricane inside my mind.

I don't bother with sitting. As the kettle screams and comes to a boil, Jackson prepares the cup and sets it before me with the certain amount of grace he always sustains. It's perfect, just to my liking; I only discovered how much I like this flavor upon moving in with him. He's a big tea drinker, and I never had been before coming here. I take a sip and it's pleasantly hot against my lips, so I take another. "Come," he says, nodding me over. He's sitting on the other side of the counter, a half-eaten plate still in front of him. "Sit with me."

"No," I say, declining the offer. I clear my throat and amend the statement to say, "No, thank you. I'd rather stand. I don't think I could sit and tell you this. It's… I don't know. It's too much."

"Alright," he says. He sits up straight and poised like always, facing me with his elbows on the counter. Suddenly, I feel very put on the spot. This feels so practiced, so set up and planned. I had no image in my mind of how I wanted to tell him, but it's a guarantee I wouldn't have thought up a scene like this.

"I…" I say, wrapping my palms around the steamy mug. I blink hard and squint a bit, my thoughts threatening to jumble again. "I don't know where to start."

The way he looks at me is gentle and without any pressure. He's comforting in a place where he could be very intimidating, and for that I'm grateful. "The beginning works," he says softly.

I nod to myself and say, "Right." I spend a while thinking it over, wondering where the true beginning might be. I decide to go all the way back so he understands everything - as best as it can be understood, at least. I don't expect him to come out of this with a hug and a kiss for me. I expect much, much less - though I'm not sure specifically what. I've never told someone my secret, I've had no reason to share it prior to this. Everyone who knew was complicit or present. But now, that changes. I'm letting him in because he asked me to, and because I can't continue to keep it. If I do, I think it might kill me. "It started when I was 15," I say. "I was going to Hyde Park Academy High School, it was the summer before my junior year. The summer baby Alice was born, and that plays a big part in this. At the hospital when my mother was in labor, Libby, Kimmie and me were in the lobby. We were alone, waiting and worried. We weren't allowed in the delivery room - she was by herself in there. My dad had just passed away. Then, this intern came up to us and made us feel better. His name was Matthew - Matty."

Jackson's face opens with realization as he says, "Oh."

I stare at my hands again, nails still done-up and fancy from the party. It feels like a lifetime has passed between then and now. "I grew to call him that because we became really close," I say. "He was there for my family in a time of need and he continued to be there. Mostly for me, after a while. I didn't struggle academically in school, but I didn't have any friends. I got made fun of for my hand-me-downs and the way I looked. But with Matty, it was different. I didn't have to try and be someone. I could just be me. We got along great and he made me feel accepted when I needed that more than anything. He was there for me when no one else was, and that sounds exaggerated, but it's really not. My father had just died and I had a brand new baby sister; our family was trying to mend itself when we very well could've ripped at the seams. And he was there for all of that. Back then, I'd never known a love like the kind I felt for him… and it _was_ love. We fell in love at the end of the summer and it happened fast. So fast it should've scared me, but it didn't."

I pause for a moment to catch my breath. It's strange, talking in-depth about my first boyfriend with the man who is now my husband. I can't picture the two existing in the same realm. I was a different person with Matty than I am now with Jackson. I was younger, immature, untouched. Everything that happened with him transformed me into the married woman I am today. I'm not sure what to think about that.

"People couldn't know we were together, though," I say. "My mother knew, but that was all. He was 21, I was 16." Jackson's face changes instantly and I feel the need to defend something that is no longer mine. "I know how it sounds," I say. "But that's not how it felt. You don't know how it felt. I loved him, Jackson. I loved him more than I knew was possible, and he loved me. I had never felt like that before. I'm not asking you to side with me or understand. I just need you to listen."

"Okay," he says. "I'm listening."

I press the tips of my thumbs together and dig one nail into the soft skin of the other. "He was the first man to ever say he loved me - romantically. He listened to me, he kept me safe, at the time it felt like he gave me everything. Everything, including a baby." I don't bother with raising my eyes. I'm not strong enough, nor do I have any interest in seeing the look on his face. "He got me pregnant when I was 16," I say. "We found out in March of my junior year when I was already five months along. I hadn't known I was pregnant… I didn't show. I thought I was getting sick a lot. But no, I was pregnant. And by that time, there was no going back. I was too far along for an abortion, so we decided to keep it."

Thinking about what must be going on inside Jackson's head makes me sick, so I try not to. It's easier said than done, though, because being there might be easier than being inside my own mind. I don't want to say what comes next. I want to run. I want to get out of here and never come back if it means not saying what happened after. I swallow hard and stare at the details in the countertop, seemingly entranced until his voice pulls me out. "April," he says, and I snap back to the present.

"Sorry," I breathe, leaning forward while covering my face with my hands.

"Take your time," he says. "I just want to make sure you're still here with me. I'm right beside you. You can stop, you can do what you need to. I'm not going anywhere. You can lean on me."

I shake my head, eyes burning. It's not that I don't want to lean on him, because I do. But I shouldn't. "I was five months along in March," I say. "And in May…" I shut my eyes for a long time and press my hands to my chest, under which my heart hammers wildly. "In May… something terrible happened. I did something terrible. It makes me an awful person and I know you think you know me, and you might think you know my heart, but you don't." I look up at him when I say the last part and his eyes are shiny. What I'm saying is scaring him and it should. "Matty was over and we were just hanging out like always. We were home alone. I went into the bathroom because I was feeling strange, and when I pulled my pants down, I noticed I was bleeding." My body freezes, blood going cold inside my veins. My jaw clenches, tightens up, and I have to turn all my emotions off in order to get these words out. "Bleeding a lot. More than what was normal. We didn't have health insurance because it was under my dad's name and he had passed away, so I didn't want to go to the hospital. I told Matty I could have the baby at home because he was a surgical intern, and we could do it together. He believed me." I let out a shaky exhale. "I was wrong. I was a stupid, stupid child. Nothing was going right and I didn't want my mom to know. I don't know why I didn't call her. Maybe things would've turned out differently if I had. I don't know." I pause and stare at my untouched cup of tea, the liquid rippling from how hard I'm breathing. "I don't know."

An even longer silence passes this time and Jackson allows it. I haven't gone anywhere in my mind, instead I'm trying to figure out a way to say what comes next without sounding like a monster. There isn't a way, though. There's no way at all. "April," he says after some time has passed. "Then what?"

"The baby was coming," I say, answering quickly like the words had been waiting right at the gate. "I was having contractions. He wanted to come, but it just wasn't working. It was lasting too long. I wasn't thinking clearly and neither was Matty. We were kids… we were just kids." I inhale shakily. "So, I told him to cut me open. He was an intern, he knew how to handle an incision. I don't know what made him agree, but he did. He tried, at least. And it didn't go deep enough."

Jackson makes a sound in his throat that might be a word trying to come to the surface, but it doesn't fully form. I don't wait for him to clarify the thought, though. I have to keep going. If I stop, I'll never start again.

"The bathroom was covered in blood. So was I. So was he. Just everything… all red. The pain was indescribable. I barely remember how badly it hurt because it was so much. But even still, the cut wasn't deep enough. He didn't know what he was doing. He was a brand new intern, not a surgeon. Not a doctor. He was an intern. He was a kid, just like me. And he cut me open without knowing how and gave me my scar."

"Oh," Jackson says, finally realizing. I barely give it time to settle before continuing, though.

"The baby didn't come that way, though, I pushed him out," I say, voice growing quieter. "Somehow, at 16, I pushed a baby out of me and when I did, the room was quiet." I stop for a moment, remembering that silence. Remembering how it soaked into my skin and painted a veneer over me that I've not yet shaken. "He didn't cry. He didn't move. He was tiny and blue. He was born dead. I don't know how long I was carrying him that way. He was so tiny that he fit in my hand." I don't stop. I can't stop now. "Matty and I didn't know what to do. I don't remember who came up with it, it might have been him. But at the same time, it could have been me. I was so afraid of getting in trouble, so destroyed over what I'd done, that I knew we had to get rid of it. Get rid of everything. He was dead… I didn't know what you were supposed to do. So… I wrapped him in two towels and we got in Matty's car. He took me to the dumpsters behind McDonald's on Western and 65th and we dropped our baby inside. He was already cold, but it was freezing out. That's why… the towels. I wrapped him in the towels, but I forgot his blanket." I touch the fabric where it's still tucked under my arm. "So, I kept it."

"April…"

"My mom knows," I say, cutting him off. "I had to tell her. I cleaned up the bathroom before anyone got home, but I didn't do a good job. Matty stitched me up as best he could, but my body was in a horrible state and Mom had to nurse me back to health. I dropped out of high school. I started working as a maid six months later. I didn't speak to him after that night and he didn't speak to me. Ever since, we haven't communicated. I don't know where he is now."

Jackson stands and I jump at the sound of his stool being pushed back. I'm once again toeing the line between the present and past, but I won't allow myself back there again. Now that the memory is fresh and alive, going back might mean never returning.

"Oh, April," Jackson says, coming around the counter.

I stop him with a flat hand, though, arm outstretched. "Please, don't," I say, unable to bear the thought of being comforted after everything I admitted.

I don't know what happens now that I've told him. Are things between us over and done? Is he finished with me? If he's not, is that enablement? I don't know how to move on or if it's even possible. Maybe, I shouldn't have said anything at all. This ruins everything - back then and now. It's my fault and it always has been.

"I need some time to process this," Jackson says, surprising me. I hadn't expected him to say that, but I should have. Anyone would need time. "We should reconvene later."

"Yeah," I respond quietly, the word coming as more of a whimper than anything.

I still can't look at his face, but I watch the back of his head as he leaves. Once he's out of the room, I miss his presence and detest the feeling of being in here alone. I don't want to be by myself, trapped in my own thoughts - right now or ever again.

But I don't have a choice. After I stand in the kitchen for an immeasurable amount of time, long after I've finished my tea, I eventually leave and find my way to the front room. The sun goes down before I hear any movement in the house, and the movement in question is the sound of the buzzer at the gate, of which Antonio answers. When the doorbell rings, he opens the door and calls for Jackson, which prompts me to stand and linger near the stairs, in earshot of what's going on.

"We're looking for a Mrs. April Avery," a stern voice says.

Jackson sounds confused when he responds with, "That's my wife. What's your concern with her?"

"I'm afraid we're not at liberty to discuss that without her present, sir," the voice says. "Would you mind calling her?"

My stomach plummets to the floor as I see Antonio's eyes shine in the low light. He's on the other side of the staircase staring daggers into me, and to his right the mirror reflects who's at the door. Two police officers, asking for me. Called on by the butler who never wanted me near this family.


	12. Chapter 12

**JACKSON**

"Whatever business you think you have with her, I can assure you that you're wrong," I say, keeping the door open only as much as it needs to be. I don't plan on letting these police officers strongarm their way into the house or anywhere near April. "On what grounds are you here? On private property, no less."

The bigger, bulkier officer clears his throat. I'm not intimidated by them, though I'm sure they would like for me to be. "We were called by an anonymous informant," he says. "And because of that, we need to speak with your wife. Is she available?"

"She's not," I say sternly, not budging. "What concerns her also concerns me." I stand a little straighter, a little more assertively. "I'm sure you're aware of whose household you're at." I'm not blind to the power I hold in the community; I'm used to throwing my weight around. Even more so before April came into the picture. Now, it's harder to picture myself doing as such. But when the situation calls for it - and I have reason to believe this one does - desperate times call for desperate measures. "So, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to know what this 'anonymous informant' told you."

It's clear I've knocked them down a peg, which had been my goal. The lesser officer to the right clasps his hands at his waist and lifts his chin, preparing to speak. "It's been brought to our attention that your wife was involved in the murder of an infant," he says.

A waves of adrenaline washes through me but I don't let it show on my face. Instead, I appear surprised and shocked, like that's the last thing I expected him to say. "Excuse me?" I sputter, squinting. "How would that make sense?" I shake my head. "I always thought I could take the Chicago PD seriously. But instead, you spend your days making house calls for pranks."

"It wasn't a prank, sir," the bigger officer says seriously.

"Where's the evidence?" I press, not missing a beat. I make direct eye contact without wavering - I won't be the one who backs down. "Because I have plenty that's counterintuitive. I've known my wife for the better part of our lives, though we've kept our relationship quite secret. Don't you think I would be aware of such a thing?" I close my eyes for a moment. "It's laughable that you would run with this lead as if you're unafraid of losing funding from the Avery foundation."

"Mr. Avery, understand that we're just trying to do our job," the left officer says. "We didn't come here with any pretenses."

"You came here believing what a faceless voice told you," I say, though I'm very aware of the face behind the voice. I knew the minute I answered the door and saw uniforms standing in the threshold. "How credible does that seem in hindsight?" Their facial expressions crumple a bit and I know I have them right where they need to be. "I know my wife better than I know anyone else, and to think she's capable of such a thing is ludicrous and quite honestly, offensive. If you'd like to look an innocent woman in the eye and accuse her, be my guest. But if you choose to do so, be aware that the consequences will be greater than any satisfaction you might glean."

"No, sir," the bigger officer says, and I'm aware I have the upper hand now. No longer am I the victim whose property the police forced their way onto, instead they're trespassers. I learned from my mother how to quickly flip the script in such a way. "That's alright."

"I assume you'll be leaving then," I say.

"Yes, sir."

"Please, don't make this a habit," I say, one hand gripping the doorknob with incredible strength. It's the hand they can't see, though. To them, I'm the picture of calm, cool and collected. If I were anything else, they'd have reason to be suspicious and I won't give them such pleasure. "I'd like not to see you here again."

"Of course. Our apologies."

I give them a nod and close the door without any further goodbyes, turning around with the feeling of a searing hot poker in my gut. I'm not sure where April is at the moment, but she's not on the forefront of my mind. Of course she's there, but whatever might ensue between us can wait. The issue of Antonio cannot.

I walk with purpose to the southerly part of the house, where I can usually find him. He's not there, though, seemingly deliberately, so my anger rises as I make my way back to the front of the house. Seemingly waiting for me, he's poised near the door, having obviously heard the conversation between myself and the officers. "Mr. Avery," he says smoothly, wearing a slick expression.

"I know it was you," I say, unwilling to waste time. I don't want him in this house any longer, circling our atmosphere and tainting it. Everything will improve once he's gone. I'll be able to think more clearly and help April in the way she needs, the way we both need. With him lurking about, nothing positive will happen because he'll make sure of it. "It was you who called the police."

"Was I wrong to do so?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. "What transpires between my wife and me is, quite frankly, none of your business. You work for this household and my family but our affairs are not yours. I think you've come to think differently."

"I was your grandfather's number one advisor," he says. "I've always had your family's best interest in mind. And if I'm being honest with you, your murderer of a wife doesn't fit the Avery bill. Do you really expect her to carry out the duties of an Avery woman? To hold herself with dignity and grace while knowing what an abhorrent thing she did? If she's capable of such a thing, what else is she capable of?" He squints, eyes boring into me. "Have you thought past your own nose, Mr. Avery? Past the fact that she's beautiful and bends to your will? Have you thought about how a girl like her will mar your family name that has been built up for generations upon generations?" My silence gives him what he wants, though it doesn't mean what he thinks. "I hadn't thought so. She doesn't belong here, and she doesn't deserve this roof over her head. Imagine what Harper would think. Imagine what Robert would think."

My skin tingles. I want nothing more than to launch forward and punch him square in the jaw, but violence will solve nothing. It's not the way in which I want to assert my power; I'm above that. "My father would adore her much in the way I do," I say, teeth clenched. "Keep his name out of your mouth. You know how he felt about you. I never knew why, but now I've begun to understand. April is important to me and I won't allow you to ruin her."

"As if a woman like her doesn't deserve to be ruined," Antonio says. "She killed a child, Mr. Avery, and threw the body in a dumpster. I'm surprised you're able to look at her and see the same person you once did. The violence, it's inhumane. I'd be surprised if she has the propensity to feel towards you what you think you feel for her. She's a monster."

"She is no such thing," I growl, nearing him with my body on fire. "I won't hear her name on your lips again. I want you out by tonight."

"Out?" he repeats, eyebrows up. "You're firing me, Mr. Avery? You don't have the power."

"I'm the patriarch of this household and I don't want you in it," I say, unrelenting. "I don't want you associated with the Avery name any longer. You've now slandered it and that was the final straw. You're clearly against us; it's not in our best interest to continue employing you."

"You're making a mistake," he says coolly. "I know all the dark secrets about your delicate little wife that I'm sure neither of you would like the media to see. Isn't it smarter to keep your enemies close?"

"I don't care!" I roar, having no control over the way my temper explodes. I can't stand to look at his face any longer and if he doesn't clear away soon, he's going to get hit. "I want you out of this house and out of this family. For good. You won't be coming back."

We stare at each other for a long moment, sizing up the other and waiting for someone to move first. I refuse; I'll stand here until he leaves, and he realizes as much. He breaks eye contact and slowly marches past me, towards his quarters to assumedly collect his things. I watch the back of his head as he disappears, ignoring the urge to shout something after him and undercut the power of my orders. No more words are needed, I laid everything out. If he's not gone by nightfall, then I'll have to force him out. But until then, all there is to do is wait.

So slowly, I go upstairs to the old studio. It's not a conscious decision, but my feet eagerly take me as if it were. Strangely enough, though I'd come to be alone, the door is already cracked and there's movement inside. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if it's Antonio come to destroy the remaining parts of my father, but when I push the door further I see April. She's crouched by the window, one arm resting on the sill with her legs tucked under her. Her forehead rests on one wrist as she leans forward, shoulders shaking with powerful sobs.

"April," I say quietly so not to scare her.

It does, anyway, though. She jumps and flips around, madly wiping her eyes, appearing like she got caught doing something she shouldn't. "I'm sorry," she says with a hiccup. "I shouldn't be here, I know."

She gets up to leave, but I stop her. "It's okay," I say.

"No, this is your space," she says, attempting to brush me off. "I just thought you were gone, so… I don't know. It was a dumb idea."

I blink and take a long look at her. Her shiny, wet cheeks, bloodshot eyes and the dark circles beneath them. She's exhausted, that much is clear. "It's calming, isn't it," I say softly, taking her hand in mine. She looks at the contact and then back up at my eyes, nodding. "I know," I say. "Being in here after so many years, I remember why I liked it so much."

She relaxes against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. She still keeps my hand as she asks, "Are they going to take me away?"

"Who?" I ask, momentarily forgetting.

Fear flashes across her eyes. "The police," she says. "They were here for me. I heard them at the door."

"Oh," I say, the thick lies I told coming back in droves. I'm not sure how to go about telling her what I said and now isn't the time. I don't think she could handle it. "No. I made them leave."

"How?" she asks.

"It doesn't matter right now," I say. "What matters is they're gone and they won't be back. No one's going to take you away, April. I won't let that happen."

She nods to herself, chewing her lower lip. Every time she blinks, new tears fall but she does nothing to clear them. Instead, she lets them roll down her smooth skin and slip past her jaw to make a trail all the way down her neck. "It was Antonio," she whispers after a long period of silence has passed.

"I know," I respond. She lifts her head to meet my eyes, visibly surprised. "I fired him. He's on his way out."

"You fired him?" she says incredulously. "How?"

"Easily," I say. "I'm head of house. He obviously has a vendetta against you and since you are a part of this family, he has animosity towards us as a whole. I won't accept such a thing under our roof."

"Oh," she says, releasing a bit of tension. "Oh."

I move to sit next to her, leaning against the wall as well. I extend an arm and she looks at me warily, judging the situation before falling into my side. She does so eventually, though, and melts against my body in a way that grounds me so much. "My father never liked him," I murmur, turning so my lips move against her hair. "I never knew why. He always seemed fine to me, as a child. But now, I understand." She nods and I rub her outer arm, kissing her crown while letting my lips linger. "April, I will never let him nor anyone else hurt you."

She shakes her head, shoulders growing tight again. Her arms curl into her chest as she makes herself smaller, muscles tightening. "How can you be so kind to me after all I told you?" she asks.

I take my time in replying because, in all honesty, I'm not sure of the answer myself. When she told me the secret she'd been keeping safe for so long, it was nothing I expected and I was horrified, as anyone would be. But I wasn't disgusted or appalled. She was a child, only 16. She had no resources and, in her mind, no other choice. If I'm to feel disgusted by anyone, it's her ex-boyfriend Matthew who was a legal adult and wrong in more ways than one. I'm deeply saddened that it happened, but I feel no differently towards April. And if I do, it's only positively - I understand her more deeply, I can sympathize with her whereas I wasn't able to before. A wall was broken, which is what I wanted. But now, there's a certain degree of separation because of it - she assumes I'm scrutinizing her because of what she did, when that is simply not the case. I need to find a way to make her believe it. "Because you're my wife," I tell her. "And that means more to me than I can find words to explain. _You_ mean more to me, April."

"I did an awful thing," she says, tucking her face into my neck.

"But this is how you move forward," I say. "It wasn't doing you any good to keep it bottled up. By unearthing it, you're setting yourself free."

"I don't deserve to be set free," she whimpers.

I close my eyes and lean my cheek against the top of her head, spotting a small, photograph-sized canvas only a few feet away. I reach and hold it between my hands, recognizing it as one of the last pieces I painted before my father passed away. "On warm nights, my father would take me to the lake," I say, speaking quietly after studying the painting for a long while. April's breathing changes as she listens, turning her face towards the picture I'm holding. "When he began teaching me watercolor, that is. It's an important medium, but one hard to control. Real-life inspiration works the best, and he always told me sunsets were the only place to start. We spent countless nights on the sand with canvases in front of us; we'd bring our paints and arrive just in time for it to start. We had to paint fast, it didn't last forever, but that was the most exciting part. Every night, it was different and we had the chance to capture that uniqueness." I trace the edges of the small canvas resting against my thighs. "This was the last one I created before his death. He wasn't there, but told me to bring the painting back to show him."

"Did you?" she asks. Her voice almost surprises me; I'd been so lost in my head, so lost in that memory, I'd almost forgotten she was there.

"I did," I say, and if I close my eyes I can remember his face when I showed him. I smile a bit and say, "He told me that I did so well, he could the sun come to life and she was a redhead." I point to the oranges and fiery reds in the painting, the colors having not faded one bit. "Funny. I haven't thought about that for so long. But it comes back, looking at this. The sun is a redhead."

April tips her face up, deep sadness still laden in her eyes. I close mine and kiss the space between her eyebrows, then run my fingers through her beautiful hair while keeping her close. Watching her in the low light of the room, I'm sure my father was right.

…

The next morning, I wake before April does. The sun is just coming up and our room is warm; I don't want to move but know that I should. I hear Calliope's voice sounding from downstairs and the tone isn't warm. Something doesn't feel right.

I turn to watch my wife for a moment, lying on her stomach with the covers pushed to her ankles. Her arms are under the pillow with her face turned towards me, back rising and falling as she breathes deeply. I lean over and press a kiss to the back of her head, stroking her hair a few times before sliding off the mattress and into my robe.

I make eye contact with Calliope as soon as I come down the stairs and she's hanging up the phone wearing a harried expression. "Jackson," she says, breathless.

"Is something wrong?" I ask, eyebrows furrowed. "Who called so early?"

She closes her eyes and shakes her head, clearly upset. "I was talking to the people over at _US Weekly_ ," she says.

"Why?"

She runs her teeth over her top lip and lets out a long sigh. "Because of these," she says, tossing a few magazines over the tabletop. "I already called _Star_ and _OK!_ No success anywhere."

I stare at the covers for much too long, taking in the horror. The same photo is on the cover of all three with relatively similar headlines. _**APRIL AVERY - A BABY KILLER TWICE OVER?**_ The words stare me in the face and I feel sick to my stomach. With a shaking hand, I reach to pick up _US Weekly_ and flip to the article featuring April and me. I only read the title before closing it - _Chicago's sweetheart might not be as sweet as we thought_.

"Antonio did this," I say, keeping my voice low. "The police couldn't do anything, so he took to the press." I stand in place and clench my fists, inhale deeply, then shout, "The fucking bastard!"

"Wait, this is true?" Callie asks. "I've been on the phone with magazine outlets for an hour refuting a story that's true?"

"No," I say instantly. "Well, yes. But no. That blood - this blood all over April…" I point to photo on the cover that showcases her cradled in my arms, limp and wet. I have no idea how that picture was taken; I don't remember seeing any photographers on our way out. I must have been too distracted. "That isn't hers. That's fake, it was from my mother's party."

"Then what's true about all this?" she prompts.

I sigh, knowing I have to tell her. "Don't say a word," I say, and Callie nods seriously. "April had a stillbirth when she was 16. Antonio overheard the conversation we had yesterday and contacted the police because the way April and the father of the child disposed of the baby left much to be desired. It was a mistake, yes, but getting the law involved wasn't the way to go. I had to shake them off and I fired Antonio. He warned me he would do this… I didn't think he would go through with it."

"Well, he did," Callie says, seemingly unfazed by everything I dropped on her. That's one of her strengths - she is absolutely unflappable. "And the magazines won't recall their issues. It was a long shot, but I tried. Everything is on the stands already as of midnight last night. I don't know what else I can do."

I think quickly, pulling out my phone. "I'll handle it," I say.

"I already made the calls, Jackson," she says.

"I'm not calling the magazines," I say. "I'm calling Yang and the legal team."

I spend a while on the phone with our family's horde of lawyers, all willing to fight like dogs for the sake of my family name. They've been with us for years and we hired them for a reason - they never lose. Along with getting the magazines pulled, I organize a team to sue Antonio for defamation of character. I won't take this lying down.

Unfortunately, the phone calls also includes one to my mother that forces me to explain everything. It lasts for much too long, is filled with far too many questions, and by the end I feel she dislikes April more than ever for 'running our name through the mud.' Trying to tell her otherwise was useless, and though I've made plenty progress by the time I hang up the phone, defeat weighs heavy on my shoulders.

"Baby?" I hear from behind when the sun has risen much higher.

I've been leaning forward with my hands on the table and my head hung low for quite some time. I don't know how long exactly, but Calliope is gone and I'm alone in the kitchen - well, now with April having joined me. "Hi," I say tiredly. I've been up for hours, though it's barely 9am.

"Are you alright?"

I lift up and look at her where she stands, wrapped in the same gauzy robe as yesterday when she told me everything. She looks a bit more rested now, though her hair is a mess and her eyes are wide with trepidation. In the time she spends staring at me, she doesn't so much as blink once. "I… no, not exactly," I say.

She inches closer in socked feet. I look down and see that they're pink and fuzzy, making her feet look bigger than usual. If I weren't so distracted, I would think it's adorable. "What's wrong?" she asks.

I rub my temples with a thumb and forefinger and raise my eyebrows, breathing deeply as I gesture towards the magazines on the table. She comes closer and stands next to me, arms curled close as she gasps at what's before her. "What… what does this mean?" she asks, picking one up. "This isn't true. They're saying… they're saying I'm… but that blood isn't real."

"I know," I say, eyes still closed. "I'm doing what I can to get them off the shelves. My legal team is on it already. I didn't want you to have to see them; I wouldn't have shown you, but I don't think we should keep things from each other anymore."

"You're right," she says quietly, setting the magazine back down. She takes a long breath to say, "People think I'm a murderer. No one will look at me the same."

"Everyone knows these magazines are bullshit," I spit. "It's a bunch of gossip, and anyone with a brain doesn't believe it. And even so, they won't be out for long. Our team has a lot of power."

"It's not entirely a lie, though," she says, lips barely moving. "I am a baby killer. Just not twice."

"April, stop," I say. "Don't say that. It's so much more complicated than that."

She doesn't respond, she only gets quiet and turns away from the display on the table, unable to look anymore. "You were having nightmares last night," she says. "Trying to talk. Kicking. You wouldn't settle down."

"I'm sorry," I say.

"It didn't bother me," she says. "I just felt bad."

"You should've woken me up. You need your rest."

"I tried," she says. "You wouldn't. I tried to soothe you, but nothing took. You were really upset."

"I guess I have a lot on my mind right now," I say.

"Of course you do," she says. "So do I, so I understand. I'm just sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry anymore, April," I tell her, turning towards her with a determined look in my eyes. "I mean that. What happened was in the past. It can't haunt you anymore."

"It does, though," she mutters. "It always will."

"Not always," I say, standing up straight to move further into the kitchen. "Do you want something to eat? It'll do you some good."

"Sure."

"I'll call the chef."

"No," she says. "We can make it."

I shoot her a look. "I don't cook," I say. "I promise, it'll be fast and the chef will make it a thousand times better."

"You can learn," she says, and there's a smile in her eyes for the first time in a while. I'd be evil to cast it away. "Just pancakes. They aren't hard as long as we have all the ingredients. It'll be fun. It'll take our minds off everything."

"Okay," I concede, seeing her point. "Sure."

We find all the ingredients needed and she tells me what to do. "You pour the dry ingredients into this bowl," she says, pushing a small one towards me. "Not too much and not too little. Just like the recipe says. That's important."

"Yes, chef," I say, noticing how she stands behind me. She guides my wrists as I measure the ingredients and trails her fingers along my forearms while I pour them into the bowl, watching carefully from around my side.

"Just like that," she says gently, leaning her cheek against my outer bicep. "You're doing so well. A very fast learner."

"Thank you," I say, sifting the dry ingredients together as she wraps her arms low on my waist. She hugs me tight and presses her cheek between my shoulder blades, lingering for a long moment while I mix and stir. My chest swells with a feeling I can't name - or one I'm afraid to name - and I find myself wanting to be with her like this forever. At the moment, I can't think of anything better. "I'm sorry for what Antonio did," I say, feeling the need to say as much.

"It's not your fault," she says. "It's mine. I shouldn't have told you in such an open area."

"It was his fault, not yours," I correct. "He had ill intentions and that was his issue. Don't take responsibility for his lack of character, sweetest."

I hear her smile though I can't see her face. "Sweetest," she says. "I like that."

"Good," I say.

"Jackson," I hear, turning to see Calliope in the entryway wearing a pensive expression. She's holding the landline with a hand cupped over the receiver, waiting for my attention. "Phone call for you."

"Who is it?" I ask, being that this is a moment I don't want interrupted. I've been feeling quite separate from April for too long and we've started to pull together again. I don't want it cut short.

"It's important," she says. "Trust me."

"Okay…" I say, trailing my fingers over April's birdlike wrists. "I'll be back, okay? Don't finish without me."

"I won't," she says, unwinding her grip and watching me walk towards Calliope.

"Who is it?" I ask once we're out of the kitchen and in the main entrance.

"Matthew Taylor," she says.

"Am I supposed to know who that is?" I ask, frustrated. I only left April because whoever is on the the phone is supposedly important. A name I'm not familiar with doesn't fall into that category.

"Yes, you are," she says. "Matthew Taylor is the father of your wife's late child." She extends her arm and, in turn, the phone towards me. "He wants to talk to you."

I blink hard and stare at the device like I've never seen one before. I take it from her while setting my shoulders straight and clearing my throat, turning my back once I lift the phone to my ear. "Jackson Avery speaking," I say coolly.

"Um, hi," a meek-sounding voice says. "This… this is Matthew Taylor."

"I'm aware," I say. Hearing his voice doesn't make my respect for him increase in the slightest - I still think he's a cowardly, spineless, pathetic prick who should have known better. And not only that, he's a manipulator who took advantage of a minor. He gets none of my sympathy, nor will he ever.

"I saw the magazines," he says. "I saw my April with… with you."

I raise my eyebrows and blink hard, flabbergasted that he would say such a thing. _His_ April? I shake my head to clear it and resist getting into a petty argument over the phone with a stranger. His opinion and words mean nothing. What means something is both signatures on the legal marriage document that April and I share. "Yes, she was with me," I state. "She's my wife. We're together often."

"She's married now, I read that," he says. "In the article, there was information about what happened to our baby."

He came out and said it so forthrightly, without any hesitation. That forces me to see him in an even worse light. His voice doesn't tremble nor does it seem to hold much emotion. I can't even conjure up a decent image of this person in my head, but I know I don't like him. "The magazines are being recalled," I say. "And your name wasn't mentioned. You have nothing to worry about."

"It's not that," he says. "I want to see her."

"Excuse me?" I say, forehead wrinkling. That's the last thing I expected him to say. I thought he might be angry with the story coming out, but nothing like this. I never thought I'd actually meet this person, nor did I ever want to.

"I haven't seen April since it happened," he says. "She fell off the face of the earth. We… we pulled apart. We had to. There was no way we could stay together after what happened, but I'm ready to see her again."

"Oh, _you're_ ready," I say.

"Yes."

I make an incredulous sound. "I'll discuss it with her," I say. "If she wants to see you, then so be it. But if she doesn't, I won't press the issue."

"Okay," he says. "Is she there? Could I talk to her?"

"No," I say flatly.

"Could you at least tell her that I called?"

"I'll have a discussion with her about your potential meeting," I say. "Thank you for calling."

I hang up and exhale loudly, setting the receiver down on the tabe in the middle of the room. I keep one hand over it, encasing the whole thing, and feel my body become heavier again. He wants to see her. He wants to see her because he's ready to see her, and that's apparently a good enough reason. Unbelievable.

I lift my head and take one step back towards the kitchen, but I stop before I can get far. Going back in there means April asking who was on the phone, then having to tell her, and that's not something I want to do. She shouldn't have to unearth that part of her life more than she already has; the skin has already been peeled back and I assume his presence would only pour salt inside.

Before I can have any further debate with myself, I hear her voice. "Jackson?" she peeps, and I look up to see she's standing in the kitchen doorway, peering around the half-wall.

"Baby, hi," I say, mouth gone dry.

"I heard you on the phone," she whispers, fingers tangling together as she chews the inside of her cheek. The color has drained from her face and left even her lips a ghostly white. Her hair stands as a shock juxtaposed next to the paleness and sends a shiver up my spine. She doesn't look like herself.

"You did," I murmur.

She nods and asks, "He wants to see me?"

I open and close my mouth in an attempt to organize the thoughts inside my head. "Yes," I say. "But it's something we should talk about. He-"

"I want to see him," she says.

"April," I say with a sigh. "It won't be that simple. Seeing him could dredge up emotions that you aren't ready for. These resurging memories are all so new, who's to say what you can and cannot handle right now?"

"I can handle seeing him," she insists. "I need to, Jackson. The last time I saw him was that night. Afterwards, neither of us contacted the other again. I just need that closure. I need to see him and know he's real and that it happened."

I set my jaw firmly. "He hurt you," I say.

Her hand flies to her stomach involuntarily. "He thought he was doing the best thing for me," she says.

"How could he think that?" I protest. "He got through medical school, he was a goddamn surgical intern. And he thought an emergency C-section with a kitchen knife on a dirty bathroom floor was the best option? You have to be kidding, April."

The apples of her cheeks turn pink and bring a bit of color back to her complexion. "You weren't there," she says. "I told you everything, but you didn't live through it. Only two people did, and I need to see the other one. I can't keep feeling like it was only me."

…

The next day, Matthew is due to our house. I arranged the meeting at the mansion deliberately because it's out of the eyes of the press and will be a private ordeal. I'm already dreading the occurrence, there's no need to make it worse with the presence of the media.

April is nervous, I can tell. She's trying to pretend that she's not, but she hasn't stopped fidgeting for the better part of the morning. Before coming downstairs, she changed her clothes three times and fussed with her hair in the mirror until she was satisfied. No matter how many times I told her she looked fine, she didn't hear me. My voice has fallen on deaf ears since the moment we woke up.

"He's here," Calliope says after speaking into her Bluetooth. "He's driving up now."

April leads the way to wait on the porch and I follow suit, stiffly, beside her. I wait with my feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped at my waist, watching the driveway with a stoic expression. She's not so much excited, per se, as she is jittery. Her whole body appears to be vibrating and not in the good way. I can't discern what she's feeling specifically and now isn't the time to discuss it.

His car is no more than I expected as it rolls up the pavement and comes to a stop. When he gets out, he's everything that qualifies as average. A white man with mousy brown hair, wide shoulders, and a dopey face. When he locks eyes with April, my gut lurches and I wonder if I'm in danger of vomiting. It would be the cherry on top of this awful moment.

She doesn't move. She stands with one hand gripping the opposite elbow and watches him as he approaches, shoes tapping against the asphalt with each step. I watch him, too, gauging his movements while staying alert. I don't plan on letting my guard down or exhaling throughout this entire meeting, and I hope he notices. I don't want him to feel comfortable.

"April," he says once he's close enough. He smiles and I feel sick. "You… you grew up."

"So did you," she says.

I resist the urge to raise my upper lip at his comment; it doesn't sit right with me. Of course she grew up - the last time he was with her, intimately at that, she was 16 years old. I'm beyond disgusted.

"It's so good to see you," he says. "I can't believe… sorry. I can't believe it's you."

"I know," she says. There's a grin on her face but not in her voice, and that's a sentiment I'm very familiar with from her. I watch her carefully, wondering how she'll progress, but her face is soon shrouded from view as Matthew wraps her in an overly-enthusiastic hug. It takes her a moment to reciprocate but eventually she does, and I harden even further. It's like there's a metal rod in my spine, forcing me to stand as rigidly as possible. I've never been more uncomfortable, and my rage builds with each passing second. When he pulls away, he goes to cup her face, but she turns demurely away and looks to me. "Matty, this is my husband. Jackson."

He looks at me and, if I'm not mistaken, sizes me up. I stand a bit taller than him though he's broader, and my presence is much more confident. That's no surprise. "We spoke on the phone," I say without any inflection.

"Yeah, we did," he says, shaking my hand without my permission. I'm flustered but finish the handshake for the purpose of cordiality. "Thanks for letting me stop by."

I nod curtly while making steady eye contact and he breaks first, which I knew he would. We make our way inside not long after and sit with coffee in the front room - April and me and the couch with Matthew in an armchair across from us.

"When I saw you on the cover of that magazine, I was like… what the fuck?" he rambles, going on his tenth minute of solo conversation. "I barely recognized you with all that blood. But at the same time, I actually did recognize you, 'cause like that was how I last saw you, you know? It was a lot to take in. I freaked out. No one even knows that I was part of the whole thing, nobody except your mom and I know she won't say shit. So, I bought every magazine on the rack so no one could read them. It cost a shitload, by the way, but that doesn't look like it's a problem for you anymore. But yeah, I read all of them and realized my name wasn't even in there and then the store wouldn't take the magazines back. So, that was annoying as fuck. Why would they make up that shit about you, though? That you killed a baby twice? It wasn't twice."

"It wasn't once," I cut in sternly, power behind my voice. "You should know better than to word it in such a way."

"My bad," he says. "Sorry. It's been a really long time."

"You haven't forgotten, though, have you?" April says quietly. She traces the rim of her mug and stare at Matthew with intensity. "Don't you think about it every day?"

"I don't know about every day," he answers. "I think about it sometimes. I mean, I _really_ thought about it after seeing the magazines. All that blood. It never came out of my cloth seats, so that kinda made me remember that I had to sell that car for parts." I can't contain myself for much longer; the anger is about to boil over. "So, are you guys ever gonna have a kid?" he asks. "How's that scar, by the way?"

"Listen to yourself," I say, standing up so quickly that April jumps. I tower over Matthew and he doesn't do a thing to level the playing field. Instead, he just stares at me. "Honestly, listen to the words coming out of your mouth. How old are you now, 26?" I shake my head with my upper lip raised. "You must have aged backwards. I've never been a stupider, more willingly dense person."

"Hey. Listen, man-"

"No," I say, jutting a hand out towards his face. "Not only are you incorrigibly wrong in the way you speak about what happened, but you're a deplorable human being. You took advantage of a 16-year-old girl. 15, really. A child. You impregnated a child and left her following tragedy. Do you realize what kind of person that makes you? You left her to clean up the mess, literally and figuratively, and bear the weight while you went and lived the rest of your life the way you wanted. Had you never thought to reach out to her? To check on her? Of course you didn't. Because you're a child, Matthew Taylor. No wonder you were attracted to one, you sick fuck." I take a deep breath through my nose and hold it for a moment before letting it free. "I want you out of our home," I say, pointing towards the door. "You shouldn't have come. Get out. Now. Don't think about coming back to try and scrape up what you did."

Without a word and much as I expected, he turns tail and leaves in the way he came. After the door closes and security ushers him down the driveway, April and I exist in stunned silence in the front room, an empty chair left in the place of her ex-boyfriend.

"Why did you do that?" she finally asks, tone weak.

"Do what?" I ask.

"Why would you let him come over if only to berate him?" she says, blinking up at me with a scowl. "It was unfair. You cornered him, Jackson. He couldn't win."

"He shouldn't win," I say stubbornly, knowing I was right. "He hurt you, April. Can't you see that? Can't you see that a 21-year-old made adult mistakes with a child who had no way of knowing better? Don't you see that he's the one who should shoulder the weight of the blame here?"

Her lower lip trembles in a way that lets me know she realizes exactly that but can't admit it. "The feelings I had for him made blame impossible at the time," she says, barely a peep.

"I'm not talking about 'at the time,'" I insist. "I'm talking about now. What about feelings now, right now? It's not too late to realize that he was the one in the wrong. It would make you feel exponentially lighter if you'd just admit that."

"It's not as simple as admitting it," she says. "Of course I see how it looks from the outside. But on the inside, isn't it always so much different?"

"Not this time," I say. "Not with what he did to you - or all he should've done."

"But I can't go back and change it," she says. "And what good would holding a grudge do now? It's over."

"I don't know," I say. "But watching you sit here and just… _accept_ every foolish thing that came out of his mouth was too much to bear."

"You hate him," she says, point blank.

I don't bother refuting it. "Sure," I say. "I hate him."

"Why?" she asks. "Why waste your energy?"

"Because I don't like to see the person I love suffer," I say, and what I've said dawns on me only after the words come out. I love her. I don't know how long I've loved her, but there's no denying it anymore. Especially not now, after saying it in such plain terms. I love her.

"The person you...?" she echoes, the concept sinking in in the same way it is with me.

I nod slowly, gravely, eyes locked with hers. "Yes," I say. "Love."


	13. Chapter 13

**APRIL**

Jackson's words linger like laundry in the wind. Not dirty, but demanding attention as they move in the breeze, expectant and in need of action. His eyes are full of emotion like I've never seen; he's not usually one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but it's all over his face. I have no idea what to think, let alone what to say.

"You love me?" I echo, knowing I'm only making myself sound stupid. We're both fully aware that I heard what he said. There's no reason for him to repeat it, except to buy time.

He clears his throat and lifts his chin, steeling himself. He lets out a long breath and says, "Yes, April. I love you."

My throat constricts and I nearly choke because of it. I press a hand to the base of my neck, blinking hard and fast, unable to process any of this. It's hard not to go back and remember how he treated me upon arrival, back when we first tied the knot. He acted like I was a bug to be crushed, scum on the bottom of his shoe. And now he loves me? I can't wrap my head around it. I don't see what I did to be so worthy of love, let alone _his_ love. It can't be real; this isn't happening. "You don't love me," I murmur, keeping his eyes no matter how hard it is. "You can't."

His brow furrows with confusion. Now, that's an expression I recognize. "And why is that?" he prompts.

"I… I…" I stammer, fingers spreading as I try to find somewhere to put my hands. I don't know what to do with them. "There's just no way that you do. There's just… it's not… you can't, okay?"

"No, not okay," he says calmly. "I promise, I'm telling the truth. I've loved you for a while, I just didn't know it. And I'm sorry, I know I'm not well-versed in showing it."

Tears prick the backs of my eyes and make them burn. I close them for a long moment and open them wet, but I wipe hastily at my cheeks so the moisture can't linger. I sniffle loudly, breath hitching as I say, "Well, you couldn't have picked a worse time to tell me." My voice wobbles and sounds different than usual. I hate it, so thick and vulnerable.

"I am sorry about that," he says softly.

My voice is anything but soft, though. "Because I don't know how to feel about anything right now!" I burst. "Literally nothing! I really hate how that feels. My whole life belongs to the public and nothing is mine anymore. I feel stripped and bare and… I have no idea what else. It's all so confusing, and I don't know what to do about it. I don't know if I love you, I don't know if… I don't know. I know I don't hate you, which is good." I meet his eyes for a brief second. "That's all I know. I'm sorry. I don't know what else to tell you."

"You don't have to tell me anything," he says. "I understand where you're coming from. I didn't expect you to say it back."

"Yes, you did," I say weakly. "People don't say 'I love you' hoping to be left hanging. Jackson, come on."

"I didn't have any expectations," he says. "Please, don't put words in my mouth. I don't like it when you do that. As much as you think you might, April, you don't always know what I'm thinking."

"Clearly," I say. "I would've never guessed that you…"

He blinks and I know he understands what I mean. "Well, I do," he says. "Very much. You snuck up on me in a way I didn't know was possible. But if you're not ready to say it back, I can deal with that. If you're not ever ready… well, I can deal with that, too."

"Why?" I ask. "Why would you be okay with that?"

He shrugs and something about him diminishes. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I've never seen him this bare-faced before. It's almost more intimidating than his usual persona. "I suppose I just wanted you to know," he says. "I want you to be aware that someone in this house loves you, and you're not alone. I get the notion that you feel alone quite often."

I duck my chin and look at the floor. I wasn't aware it was so obvious. "That's not your fault," I mutter.

"But isn't it, though?" he says. "I'm your husband. Out of anyone, you should be closest to me."

"I am," I say, lifting my eyes.

"Not all the time."

"I told you my secret," I say. "That's the closest I've ever let anyone get. And I told you because I wanted to, not because I had to. That means something."

He nods and says, "I know."

I cross my arms and bite my lip, tears still looming. "I just wish… I don't know."

"I'm on your side, April," he says. "From here on out, I always will be. But specifically, right now, through all of this."

I let out a short, teary breath. "I don't want there to be an 'all this,' though," I say, pressing my first finger against my nose to quell the burning sensation. "I want it to go away. I just wish it all would stop."

"I know," he says, and the air between us crackles because of how bad he wants to touch me - I can tell. He feels like he can't, though, since I didn't return his affection, and it's blatantly clear. But he's wrong. Just because I'm not ready to return the sentiment doesn't mean I don't want to be near him anymore. So, I initiate it. I close the space and wrap my arms around his waist so spontaneously that he jumps, going rigid before softening and reciprocating the hug. He presses his face to the top of my hair and takes a deep, cleansing breath, hands mapping my entire back. "Would you like to see your family?" he asks. "They always make you feel better."

I lift my face, but I don't pull away. I'm not ready to yet. "I don't want you to think that I don't have feelings for you," I say. "You know that I do." He nods and I continue. "I just don't know what they are. Sometimes, I think I might. And then… everything turns upside down. It's scary."

"Okay," he says, tucking my hair behind both ears.

"If you still feel like kissing me, I'd like that," I whisper.

He smiles and leans in, saying, "There will never be a time where I don't feel like kissing you."

He presses his lips to mine slow and sweet, and I tighten my grip around his waist to get closer. His kisses are like home, they tie together my loose ends and pull me back to myself, right where I need to be. They're so familiar, so unlike any other kiss I've shared with a man. His are the last lips I want to taste and I'm sure of that. But if that fact is so solid, why is returning the statement of love so hard? Why do I feel like I can't do it, or that I shouldn't? "I would like to see my mom and sisters," I say. "It does make me feel good to spend time around them. But… I feel like you think I like them more than I like you, or that you can't give me what they do." I touch the sides of his neck softly with my fingertips and watch his eyes glisten. "Being with you makes me feel good, too," I say. "It didn't used to, but it does now. I like being with you, Jackson. I love being with you."

"I like hearing that," he says, then kisses me again. "I also want to tell you… I'm sorry for how I treated Matthew."

I let the words sit for a while as I sift them between both hands, like sand. It's true, it wasn't right to open up our home to Matthew only to ban him from it. But on the other hand, I don't think it was the right choice to welcome him at all; that was my fault. "You don't have to apologize," I say. "He shouldn't have come. I shouldn't have let him. It didn't do any good."

"I couldn't stand the way he talked about you," Jackson says. "I couldn't see straight. But I should've kept myself in check."

"It's over now," I say, shaking my head to brush it off. "I won't ever see him again. At least, I don't want to."

"You won't have to," he assures me. "I promise."

"Okay," I say, then rest my cheek over where I can hear his firmly beating heart. Now would be the perfect time to say it, to reciprocate, but my lips stay together. The words would fit perfectly into the silence, like they belong there; the presentation would be perfect. But I can't say them.

He pets the back of my head and runs his nails along my scalp, letting out a deep exhale. "Call your mother," he says. "See if they'd like to come here this time."

…

The first thing my mom does when the door opens is wrap me in a huge hug. "Oh, baby," she says, holding me so tightly that I can barely breathe. I don't say anything, though; I let her. She rubs my back with ferocity and gives me one last squeeze before pulling away. "Oh, honey," she says, cupping my cheeks with both hands. Her eyes say plenty - it's clear she saw the magazines. I hate that she did.

"Hi, mama," I say softly.

"Sissy!" Kimmie and Alice chorus as their bodies collide with my own. Their faces press against my stomach until I kneel down and give them proper hugs, breathing in the scent of their little-kid shampoo.

"Sissy, you live in a mansion now!" Kimmie says, in awe.

"This is all yours to have forever?" Alice asks.

"Well, not all mine," I say, interlacing my fingers with Jackson's as he stands beside me. "Jackson and I share it."

"This whole huge house just for two people?" Kimmie says, eyebrows raised.

"It's a little excessive, I know," Jackson says, giving her a smile.

"Jackson," Alice greets, hugging him. Kimmie follows her lead and does the same, both of them giggling as he pats their backs with those big hands of his. "We missed you! You didn't come see us for a long, long time. You left last time. Remember?"

Emotion flits across his face - too fast for anyone but me to notice. "I do, and I'm sorry," he says. "I'm here now, though."

"We all are!" Alice says. "So you can play with us!"

"Yeah, please?" Kimmie says. "Play with us?"

"Guys," I say. "Jackson doesn't have-"

"No, I will," he says. "I'll take them outside. We'll find something to do." He looks between me, my mother, and my older sister. "You three should take some time to catch up."

"Oh," I say gently, then squeeze his hand in gratitude. "Thank you." He nods and leans in to kiss my cheek, then follows the incessant calls from my little sisters as they head towards the back of the house. When I turn around, my mom and Libby are watching me with big eyes, waiting for what happens next. "Do you guys wanna go sit?" I ask, gesturing towards the front room where Jackson and I like to have coffee in the morning.

I get them each a glass of water, not wanting to waste time with the kettle, then sit opposite the bay windows. Sun pours in from outside and washes the room with light, but I don't feel sunny inside. Mostly because of the way my mother is looking at me, like she wants to scoop me up and protect me from the world. She's wearing the same expression she wore when I was 16 and told her everything. And then there's Libby, who doesn't know a single detail - and she needs to be told.

I trace the lip of my glass and stare at my knees, one of which is bouncing with the inability to keep still. I swallow hard and lift my head to see that my mother is looking at me with teary eyes, waiting for me to make the first move. I open my mouth to speak, but only a small sound comes out. No words. So, instead, she fills the silence. "We saw the magazines," she says.

My chest aches. "Kimmie and Alice didn't… did they?" I ask.

"No, no," she says, blinking earnestly. "They were at school. We were doing some shopping and…"

Libby looks at me with desperations. "You were covered in blood, April," she says. "How are you okay right now?"

"It was fake… fake blood," I say. "We'd been at a Halloween party. It was for show and I got caught up in it. But it… it triggered something else that I've been hiding for a long time." I'm finding it hard to meet her eyes. "Only Mom and Matty know. Well, and Jackson."

"Is it about you being a baby killer?" Libby says.

"Elizabeth," Mom snaps, her voice stern. "Don't you ever say that again."

"I'm sorry," she says. "It's what I saw on the cover of the…"

I lean forward and press my face into my hands, shoulders curving in. I feel my sister's hand on my back, rubbing slow circles, and take a big breath. "I can't say it," I mutter. "Mom, please."

"You want me to tell her?" Mom asks, and I nod. "Okay." I lift my head and Libby keeps her hand where it is, gentle and unassuming as she traces my spine with her thumb. "It happened a long time ago," she says. "April was only 16. She was with a boy named Matthew, remember him?"

Libby nods. "Yeah. Wasn't he older?"

"Yes," Mom says. "It was right after your father passed. And… well, we thought it was what April needed. He was so good to all of us. We were having such a hard time. And they started seeing each other romantically…"

"Yeah, figured that out," Libby says.

"And she got pregnant," Mom says, dropping the bomb. Libby falters and goes pale as she looks between our mother and me, waiting for the rest of the story. "The baby died," she says. "He was stillborn and April delivered him in the bathroom at our old house. They made a lot of mistakes, but there was nothing that could've been done for the baby. His little soul just wasn't ready to be on this earth. But as you can imagine, it was very scary for both of them."

"That's why we never saw him again?" she says.

"You can't just leave it out, mom," I say, blinking hard. I look at my sister. "The baby was born dead after Matthew tried to cut him out of me. The cut didn't go deep enough, though; all I did was bleed. When he was born, the baby fit in the palm of my hand… he was blue. I didn't know what to do and neither did Matty. So, we wrapped him in a towel and put him in a dumpster. That's what really happened." My face screws up with emotion and I hide it from both of them, turning away with shame. "I hate myself for it," I whimper.

"You were a child," my mom says sternly. "April, I don't want to hear you talk like that. You were just a baby."

"I don't deserve… sympathy, or whatever," I say. "I did an awful thing."

"And you've clearly spent years punishing yourself," Libby says. "This is why you dropped out of high school, didn't go to college. You could've gotten a full ride, but you didn't even try. This is why."

"Why should I get a life when he didn't?" I say, voicing something I wasn't aware I'd been thinking. I cover my mouth after I say it, shocked and upset.

"It wasn't your fault he died," Mom says. "Your body wasn't ready to carry a child."

"But I put him…"

Libby does let me finish my sentence before she wraps me in a tight hug that I melt into. I press my face to the side of her neck and cry, shoulders trembling as I let it all go. "It's over now," she says. "You didn't know what you were doing. You have to let it go."

"I can't," I say. "Everyone knows what I did."

"And?" she says. "The ones who love you still love you."

I wipe my eyes and sit up, amazed at how that could be true. I can't think of a thing worse than what I did, yet my mother and sister still claim me. They don't look at me with scorn or judgment, they look at me like a member of their family. They're looking at me in the soft manner Jackson did; Jackson, the other person who hasn't left my side. "Jackson said the same thing," I murmur.

"What?" Libby says.

"I told him, too," I say. "And he… I expected the worst from him. Why shouldn't he hate me? But he doesn't."

"Of course he doesn't," Mom says.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

The three of us turn as we hear a commotion come through the door, then see Jackson, Kimmie and Alice bound inside. Not towards us, though. They stay a few rooms away, playing without a care in the world. The smiles on my little sisters' faces are enough to brighten my spirits at least a little. And when I look to my husband, I see that he's smiling too as they chase him. It dawns on me that I've never seen him play before. It suits him well.

Libby gets up to join them, giving my mom and me a moment just for ourselves. "Of course he doesn't hate you," Mom says, looking at me gravely.

I look back with the same intensity. "He actually told me he loves me," I say quietly.

"It doesn't surprise me," she says.

"How?" I say. "This wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't supposed to be real."

"But now, it is," she says. "And it's clear how he feels. I see it in the way he looks at you. You didn't need to tell me that he loves you. I already knew."

"But…" I say, looking at him for a second time. He's chatting with Libby now, nodding along to something she's saying.

"Don't keep him at a distance because you're scared," Mom says. "I see it in your eyes, too. I know you have feelings for him."

I chew on the inside of my cheek, breathing shallowly. "But why shouldn't I be scared?" I ask. "I'm allowed to be afraid." My voice wobbles, so I clear my throat to try again. "Loving a boy killed my baby last time."

I close my eyes as she takes my hand. She strokes my skin slowly and gives me grace, lets me take a moment to compose myself before she chimes in. "You were so young," she says. "And Jackson is not Matthew." I open my eyes to find that she's giving me the softest of smiles. "Jackson looks at you like you're the stars. He's given you a beautiful life."

I wrinkle my forehead and say, "Yeah, because it's in the contract."

"April," Mom says seriously. "Having a confused heart is fine, but you have no reason to drag him through the dirt because you're feeling badly."

I press my lips together tightly and look to Jackson once again. I can't seem to stop. Now, he's holding Alice on his hip like he's been doing it his whole life, while he stands near the open fridge. Kimmie bounces on her toes next to him, looking inside, too, and Alice leans the side of her head against his. They fit together perfectly. He's a good man; I see that, and I know it. And though I think my heart already knows, I'm not ready to love him. I'm not ready for everything it entails; I'm not ready to give myself away. It took so long to get my heart back last time, and the feelings were nowhere near this strong. What happens if something goes wrong? What happens if I mess it up again? What happens when I do something to make this good man see that I'm not the good woman he imagined me to be?

I already love him, but my heart ran ahead. I need time to catch up with it.

A few moments later, a new voice sounds through the main entrance. "Hello?"

I turn around along with my mother, who seems to recognize who it is before I do. Only by a split second, though. "Catherine," Mom says, standing.

"Karen," Catherine says. "Nice to see you." She nods towards me. "April."

"Hi," I say meekly.

"Would you happen to know where your husband is?" she asks. "I'd like to have a meeting with the both of you."

"Oh," I say. "Right now?"

"As soon as possible," she says, giving me my answer.

"He's in the kitchen with my sisters," I say. "I… I can get him."

"Sit," she says. "I will. You say your goodbyes. I'm afraid this meeting is a private one."

"Oh," I say, feeling powerless and small. "Okay."

I give my family lasting hugs before they depart, standing by the door. "I didn't even get to see you that long, sissy," Kimmie says, threatening tears. Her lower lip trembles, so I place the pad of my finger on it.

"There'll be a next time," I say.

"I wanna come here to this house next time!" Alice cheers. "Please, please, can we?"

"Sure," I say. "As long as it's okay with Jackson."

"Of course it is," he says. "And I'm happy to beat you at hide-and-seek again."

"You did not beat us!" Kimmie says, smiling.

I linger on the hugs I give my mother and Libby, knowing much more is traded with affection than what I'm able to say with words. "I love you guys," I tell them. "I'll see you really soon, okay?"

They all give me affirmative answers before leaving, and when I turn around, Catherine is making her way towards the conference room and expecting us to follow. I look at Jackson with caution, eyes guarded, and he winds an arm around the small of my back. "It's okay," he murmurs, lips moving against my temple before he kisses it.

I'm scared, but I don't tell him that as I'm sure he knows. We sit side-by-side across from her at the long table, and she taps her nails as she looks briefly at her phone. When she looks up, I avoid her eyes and stare at her lips instead - they're painted a flawless red. "The magazines have been pulled," she says. "Successfully. All of them."

"Good," Jackson says. "I knew Yang could do something."

"Yes, of course she could," Catherine says. "But that doesn't mean that they disappeared from everyone's memories. People still bought them. People still saw them, at the very least." Shame riddles my gut. I know her scathing tone is meant for me, but I have no rebuttal. No retaliation. I might deserve it. "Damage control was done. But I'd still like to know the real story as to why your bloody mess of a body was on the cover of every gossip magazine known to man, young lady."

My mouth goes dry. I hadn't expected to be addressed like that. "I…" I croak, having no idea what to say. "I…"

"Mother, honestly," Jackson says. "Have some sympathy. If you can remember how."

"It's not sympathy I'm lacking, son, it's understanding," she says. "I have no idea what's going on, and as matriarch of this family, I'd like to know. Actually, I demand to know."

"Jesus," he mutters under his breath. He takes my hand atop the table and entwines our fingers, and that calms me a bit.

"I don't want to say it," I whisper. "I can't."

"Well, someone needs to," Catherine says. "I don't have all day. I have places to be, and I need to know what rumors to squash and what ones to keep safe. So, please, someone speak."

"Do you want me to tell her?" he asks, and I nod. As he speaks, I keep my face downcast and my body language shrunken. I don't want to hear the story again - it's been unearthed more times in the last 48 hours than it has in 5 years. I want nothing more than to bury it again. "April got pregnant when she was 16," Jackson says curtly, leaving out the details. I'm glad for that. It makes the story a bit less exploitative. "The baby was stillborn. The birth was very traumatic, and she was triggered by the amount of blood in the bathroom at the party."

"And the father of said child?" Catherine says.

"Out of the picture," Jackson says. "We don't need to worry about him."

"You're sure?"

"Very."

She's quiet for a few beats and I wonder what she's thinking. "April, I'd like you to look at me," she says.

With great difficulty, I lift my gaze. Her eyes aren't warm by any means; they almost seem devoid of any feeling entirely. It's off-putting, to say the least. "So, you've been pregnant before," she says. I nod. "You've birthed a child."

"Yes," I whisper.

She sits up straighter and clears her throat, folding her hands on the tabletop. "I'm not sure you've been made aware of the second inheritance constituent," she says.

My mind is blank. At the moment, I have no clear idea of what she's talking about. All that's on my mind is how badly I want to get out of this room and be alone, or alone with Jackson. The feeling of her eyes on me is one I desperately want to be rid of. "I… I don't know," I say truthfully.

Jackson turns to me and grips my hand a little tighter. "Sweetest, remember, I told you about-"

"I'm speaking, Jackson," Catherine snaps.

He gives her a foul look and she gives one in return. Once again, I recoil as their interaction is traded without verbal communication. That is, until Jackson snarls, "Go ahead, then."

She blinks to orient herself, then looks to me once again. "The agreement in Jackson's late grandfather's will stated that the other half of the inheritance - a generous sum, mind you - won't be available until you've produced an heir." Now, instead of unfeeling, her eyes have grown icy. My insides harden and freeze; I can't seem to catch a full breath. "Is that going to be an issue?"

"Mom, seriously," Jackson says, fed-up. "Right now? You're going to ask her about it right now."

"No time better than the present," she says, eyeing me still. "It's something I need to know. Because if it does prove to be a problem, arrangements can be made."

"That inheritance isn't yours to make 'arrangements' for," Jackson growls. "And I refuse to let you bully her. I've had enough."

"April can speak for herself, can't she?" Catherine says, though at the moment I feel incapable of doing so. "Use your voice, dear."

"I…" I say, but I don't know the direction in which my thoughts are headed, if anywhere. I can't think of anything to say. I don't have an answer; I can't begin to process the question. And I have no clue what she means by 'arrangements.' Does that mean if I don't help Jackson produce an heir, I'll be ousted and replaced with someone who can? I don't know, but that's surely what she made it sound like. I look to Jackson's face, full of emotion, and know I don't want to lose him. But I also can't picture myself pregnant, definitively bringing a vulnerable life into this world. I ruined it last time. What would make this time any different?

But it seems I have no choice. Jackson wants that money - he wants to help Chicago schools and such a large amount could do wonders for them. And me, I have my own ideas for a portion of it as well. It would be thoughtless to squander it. But the price is so high.

"Excuse me," I mutter, pushing my chair back while keeping my head down, hair shielding Catherine's face from view.

I hurry out of the conference room and know, by the footsteps that follow, that Jackson is behind me. I don't stop to let him catch up, though; I can't. I make it all the way to the back deck that overlooks the expansive property, and even though it's cold, this is where I want to be. The crisp, fall air awakens my senses and helps me come to a realization: I can't do this. I knew from the start that I wasn't cut out for a life like this, a life that I've tried hard to fit into. So far, it hasn't worked. It's silly to think anything will change. It was silly to have done this at all - it was a big mistake, and my heart got blended because of it. The person whom I hurt the worst was myself, as always.

"April," Jackson calls, joining me. "There you are. You ran off so fast."

I don't respond. I stay with my back towards him until he reaches my side, breathing heavily. He's looking at my profile, but I don't turn to meet his gaze. I can't look him in the eyes because my heart is breaking. I don't want him to see it.

"April," he says. "Forget what my mother said. You don't have to worry about the inheritance right now."

"But I do, though," I say, extending my arms to rest on the rail in front of me. "And you do, too." I shake my head. "I can't do this, Jackson. I just can't. You should find someone else like your mother wants."

"Like my… what?" he says. "Like my mother wants? April, no."

"Yes, it is what she wants," I insist, voice waterlogged.

"Maybe so," he says. "But I don't give a shit what she wants. I'm done giving a shit about that. She's kept me from living my life for much too long, and I'm done letting her control me. Or control you."

I shake my head vehemently. "You deserve someone who knows how to live this life," I say. "I'm sorry that… that you love me, but the feelings will go away."

"No," he says. "They won't go away. And I don't want them to. I don't want someone who can live this life. I want you."

"No, you don't," I sniffle.

"Yes, I do," he says. "I could take or leave the inheritance as long as I have you."

I finally look at him, shock written on my face and moisture shining on my cheeks. "You don't mean that," I say.

"Yes, I do."

"You can't take or leave it," I press. "Neither can I."

He looks at me with confusion, asking, "What do you mean?"

"You want to help Chicago Public Schools," I say. "I remember, you told me that. Their art programs are dwindling. You're going to fund them. That's what you want to use the money for. That's not something you can just leave. You're passionate about it. It's what your father would want."

"I… well, yes," he says. "But I can find another source. I can… I can figure out another option."

"I want to start a foundation," I say. "I've had it in my head this whole time. I've never said anything. I want to help underprivileged mothers. I want to start something I could've used when…" I let my sentence break. He knows enough to where I don't have to finish it. "That's what I want," I say, then shake my head. "I know I'm not making any sense."

His eyebrows come together with concentration. "How do you expect to start such a foundation if you force me to divorce you?" he asks.

I wipe my nose. "I said it doesn't make sense," I say.

"You're putting my needs above yours," he says. I'm quiet, which only proves him right. "I don't want you to do that anymore."

"It's what marriage is about," I mutter.

"We're married," he says. "Let's keep it that way. Stop trying to escape because you think I'd be better off without you. I promise, I wouldn't be. I'd be directionless without you. Gaining your presence in my life has opened up a new world for me. I feel like I did when I was younger, when my father let me be who I really am. You let me be who I am. You encourage it. You don't hold me to aristocratic standards or value my money. You see my heart. I made vows with you, April, and I take them seriously. I want to be married to you for the rest of my life, no matter what happens. If we have money or if we don't."

"You wouldn't know what to do without money," I say lightly.

"You'd teach me," he replies with a small smile.

I let his words wash over me and soak in, relishing their lilt and tone as they replay in my mind. I know he's telling the truth and I know he loves me. I only want him for the rest of my life, too, though I'm terrified. But knowing he's all in - and he always will be - makes that fear a little bit easier to control. "Starting a foundation is the only thing that feels close to atonement," I admit. "That's why I have to do it. Putting forth so much money into something like that… makes his life mean something. Makes mine mean something. I want to mean something."

"You already do," he tells me. "But if that's what you want, then we'll make it happen."

"We need the money," I say. "The other half." I take a step closer and link our hands together, tipping my face up slowly to look into his eyes. "I'll do it," I say, inhaling with clarity. "I'll have your baby."


	14. Chapter 14

**JACKSON**

When I told my mother that April agreed to the terms of the inheritance, she was much too pleased with herself. She was haughty, like she knew all along that she could break my wife. April has an iron will, that's something I know for certain, but it needs to be unburied. She needs to realize she's allowed to use it. My mother would love to keep her this way - meek, mild, and submitting - but that's no way to live. Especially not for April, to whom it doesn't come naturally. She's meant for great things.

I know that when I look at her. I know it when she speaks. I know it when I watch her do the most mundane things, the simplest of tasks, that she's a force to be reckoned with. I smile to myself now, as I sit in my favorite armchair with a sketchpad balanced on my thighs, as I think of how my father would've loved her. He would've raved on about her just as I do in my head; it would be nice to have someone who sees her the way I do. I wish he were here.

I can nearly picture him over my shoulder, watching the image I draw come to life as if it isn't breathing already, across the room. I can't help but create art from April's image - I get such an urge to do it, one like any other, whenever I lay eyes on her when she's at peace. At the moment, she's reading a book that she found in the library - _Jane Eyre_. By the looks of it, she's already halfway through and enjoying it immensely. Her eyes are moving, flickering really, across the pages and she hasn't spoken in a couple hours. I came in here to read as well, but the focus soon died as her presence tempted me to take out my pad. I don't know how long it's been since I started, but I have most of her shape penciled in. I got the expression on her face exactly right - pensive, concentrated and a bit tight - but my favorite part so far are her hands.

I love her hands almost as much as I love her neck. She's not a tall person by any means, but her hands and fingers are dainty and her neck is willowy and graceful. With the way she's sitting now, though, it's not easily visible. But her hands are, as they lightly grip the book. Her nails are painted a blush pink, kept natural and round. She doesn't bite them, she always keeps them nice, and they catch my attention frequently. I love the way her fingers feel in mine, small and nimble. The way I drew them culminates those qualities into the image, perfecting the portrait in the tiniest of ways.

I make a few adjustments, knowing that if I want to make this professional and refined, I'm nowhere near finished. It will need color and time, perhaps an entire redraw. But for now, I'm satisfied with what I created. I look up from the pad to find that April's eyes are no longer on the book, but staring into space. Her mind is just as far away as it was before; it's clear she's deep in thought. Over what, though, I can't be sure.

Instead of staying quiet and wondering, I decide to speak up. Communication is important between husband and wife, and specifically with us. The lack of such has proved to be more detrimental than I could imagine. So many things could've been easier had we just discussed them. It's not an easy lesson to learn, but I'm willing to try. I've begun to learn that when it comes to her, I'm willing to do nearly anything. I'm willing to figuratively to travel great lengths I wouldn't have even considered with my past relationships. That's why I felt so secure in telling her I love her - there's not a single doubt in my mind over it. Even just looking at her puzzled face in this moment, I'm sure in the fact that I love her. There's not a reason to be pinpointed; I just do.

"What's wrong?" I ask, breaking the silence as I told myself I should.

My voice startles her, her shoulders flinch at the sound. Her eyes come to meet mine, but only for a split second before traveling back to the pages. "Nothing," she murmurs, shaking her head softly.

I nod to myself and darken a few lines on the sketch. I deepen the gentle crease between her eyebrows as she visibly becomes more intent on whatever thoughts run through her mind. I know the focus isn't directed towards the book anymore; after watching her, it's clear she's not reading. "Sweet pea, you haven't turned a page in five minutes," I say, knowing full well that she's quick reader.

She looks up again, this time peeved. "Why are you watching me?" she asks.

"I know there's something on your mind," I say. "It's all over your face."

She presses her lips together and inhales sharply, turning her head to the side. As her profile comes into view, I admire the slopes and ridges of her face - her strong but adorable nose, defined cheekbones, small chin. She is fragility personified, but only on the outside. I know the inside to be much different. "I'm fine, really," she says, looking out the window. She can't see much, it's past sunset and the glass is black. All that's visible is the reflection of the room - the glowing lamps, flickering fireplace, and me.

"I don't believe you," I say.

"Jackson," she sighs, turning back.

"If you don't want to talk about it, I can accept that," I say. "I just don't think that's true. I think you do want to talk about it."

Her eyes flash admittance as she casts her gaze towards her bent knees. She closes the book, carefully keeping her place with a leather bookmark she must have found, and lets it lie across her thighs. She traces the cover art while keeping her chin ducked close to her chest, then lets out a long, pensive breath. "I don't know," she mutters.

"You can tell me anything," I offer.

Her eyes dart to mine quickly, then back to the look. She shakes her head, chews the inside of her cheek, and shrugs one shoulder. "You're not gonna like what I'm thinking," she says. "It won't make you happy."

"I'm fine with that," I say. "You don't have to censor yourself for me. I hope you know that."

We lock eyes for a longer beat this time, and something within hers tells me that she hadn't known as much. So, I'm glad that I said it. She needs to be aware that around me, she can say and do whatever she wants. She can be exactly who she is, because that's the version of her I want. I don't want any false pretense or facade, or the person she thinks I want her to be. I want April as she is at her core, but I'm not sure I've gotten to know that version of her quite yet. "The thing is," she says. "This isn't what's bothering me. But it's on my mind, too. You're saying all these wonderful, kind things to me now. And I know you mean them. At least, I think you do. But if you mean them, how could you be as horrible as you were to me when I first came? That person was still you. That's what you're capable of. You made me feel so small. And now, suddenly, I'm your sun? I don't get it, Jackson." She pushes hair out of her face and looks at me head-on. "I don't understand you, I'll be honest. I don't know how you can go from hating someone to being absolutely head-over-heels for them."

"I never hated you," I say. "Let me make that clear."

"You made it seem like you did," she points out.

"I…" I begin, but I falter. "I'm sorry."

She nods curtly, saying, "I appreciate that."

"I shouldn't have acted the way I did. I took you for granted and I knew I was doing it. You say you're confused at how my behavior could change… well, so am I. But you're the one who changed it. Spending time with you has brought me back to who I really am. And if I'm being honest, which I promise I am, I don't know much about this person, either. The last I saw of him was when I was 14 years old. I'm learning things about myself at the same rate you are."

"But this isn't an act?" she says, sounding vulnerable. "You aren't tricking me, are you?"

"April, no," I say. "When I told you I loved you…" It's strange, saying the words aloud again. She was right before when she said that I hadn't expected to be left hanging. I didn't. I don't know much about myself as of late, but it seems I know even less about her. I had pictured her returning the sentiment and the scene panning out in a 'happily-ever-after' variation. Clearly, I had it wrong. That doesn't mean there's less feeling behind my words, because I still stand by them, but it makes me feel exposed knowing she won't mirror them. It makes me feel naked, in a sense. Like she could pummel my heart if she so chose. And in my entire life, I've never been at the will of someone else. With her, though, I can no longer say that. She might not know it, but she has me in the palm of her hand. "I meant it. I would never say something like that if my heart weren't behind the words."

Her eyes return to the cover of her book as she nods. "I know that," she says. "Really, I do. It's just… I don't know. I keep having to make sure, I keep having to go back over it because it doesn't feel real. Things like this don't happen to girls like me. And before you try and dispute that, you know it's true. I'm living a fairytale, Jackson; what little girls dream of when they're tiny. Making a home in a castle with a rich prince who adores them. I have that. But I've done nothing to deserve it."

"It's not about deserving it," I say. "It's already yours."

"I know, but…" she trails off. "I guess I'm just waiting for the moment when it gets taken away."

So, that's what the root of all this is. It makes sense, given her past, that she'd be scared of comfort disappearing. It makes sense why she can't let herself settle or take her walls down. Up until now, she's been stripped of things she'd held dear - everything except her mother and sisters. The whole reason she joined me in this house and took my name was to save them from losing what little life they knew. She's done everything in her power to protect them from feeling the loss that she shoulders. "I'm not going anywhere," I tell her soberly. "Like I said before, I made vows to you. I don't make promises I can't keep."

She lets the words sit and for that I'm glad. They seem to do some soaking in, and I hope that, in time, she'll start to believe me. "I'm just afraid that I won't be able to give you everything you want," she says.

"What do you mean?"

She picks up the book and hugs it to her chest, blinking rapidly as she wraps her arms around it. "What if I can't get pregnant after everything that happened to me?" she says. "What if it happens again?" 

My heart splinters, hearing that. "I won't let it happen again," I say.

"I might have messed up my body before," I say. "You don't know. You weren't there."

"We'll go to the best doctors in the field and get you checked out, if that's what you want," I say. "To make sure it was a freak accident, to make sure your body can hold a child. We'll make sure of it."

"What if I'm right?" she wavers. "What if it can't?"

"Then, we'll figure it out," I say.

She opens and closes her mouth, then swallows as she tips her head towards the ceiling. She rests it on the pillows under her and drums her fingers on the book, creating small, hollow sounds that reverberate throughout the room. "I'm not sure what kind of a mother I'd make," she says, her voice nearly a whisper. I strain to catch what she says.

"A wonderful one," I say confidently.

The sureness of my tone forces her eyes to mine. "Why do you say that?" she asks.

"April, look at how you take care of your little sisters. Really, your entire family. You've been their backbone since your father died. Kimmie and Alice see you as their second mother. You have such a warmth about you, such a caretaker's heart. Our baby will be lucky to have you as their mother. So lucky."

She softens a little, the apples of her cheeks blushing a dusty pink. "Thank you," she says earnestly.

"But me, on the other hand. I don't know anything about babies. You'll have to teach me."

"I will," she says, tucking hair behind her ear. "But I don't know how to raise a child in this kind of life, Jackson. I don't know… I don't want…"

"My mother inserting her influence, I know," I say, making the statement easier. "I don't, either."

"Oh," she says.

"She will try," I say. "But I'll push back. I'll do everything I can for you and our baby. Even if that means we have to… I don't know, run away to Paris, or something. We'll do it."

"Jackson," she laughs, shaking her head.

"I'm completely serious," I say.

"And leave all this?" she asks, gesturing towards our immaculate surroundings.

"All of it," I say.

She giggles softly and continues to shake her head, then changes her position on the couch. "Do you want to come sit with me?" she asks, and I jump at the chance. With my sketchpad in hand, I curl my body around hers gently - my back against the cushions, one arm over her waist, our legs intertwined. And as I try and adjust our mess of limbs, the pad comes open to the page I'd been working on and she sees my depiction of her. "Wait, Jackson," she says. "Is that… did you draw me again?"

For a moment, I feel I've been caught in the act or like I've done something wrong. But when I look to her face, she isn't angry or upset, but curious instead. Confused, maybe, or at a loss. "Yes," I say, opening the book further so she can see the image.

"This is me just now," she says, tracing the lines as she leans on me. "You drew this… just now?"

"Yes," I answer again. She shakes her head and lets a puff of air through her nose. "What?" I say.

"Nothing," she replies. "It's just… I have no idea how you see me as this beautiful. Because I'm really not."

"April," I say, catching her attention. She turns her head and, in our close proximity, almost bumps my nose with the tip of hers. "Yes, you are." She rolls her eyes lightly and looks away, back towards the paper. "My father used to tell me, back when we would draw together, that someday I would find my muse. I never knew what he meant, to be completely honest. I wasn't quite sure what a 'muse' was. I had no idea it could be a person until you came and I started seeing the world differently. In everything, I see art again. The beauty came back to my canvas because of you."

She faces me again, this time letting her nose touch mine. She nuzzles it softly and I relish the feeling, heart fluttering. I wasn't aware that my heart could physically flutter, but it's proving quite capable. "Are you saying that I'm your muse?" she asks

"Yes," I say. "But that's not all you are to me."

She smiles with her lips closed and caresses the side of my face, trailing her fingers over my facial hair. I love the way her fingers feel, so graceful as they dance over my skin. "I'll tell you what you are to me," she murmurs, and I can smell her minty sweet breath.

Instead of fluttering, now my heart takes to jumping. I find myself excited over what she'll say next, if she'll take the plunge and tell me she loves me. I'd be lying if I said I don't hope for exactly that, and the anticipation is nearly killing me. But, after she takes a breath to complete the statement, she loses gumption and her shoulders deflate by a fraction. "What?" I prompt, hoping to still get it out of her.

"I don't know," she responds, and I pretend like I'm not at all disappointed.

I let it roll off my back as best I can and tell myself what I already know: I need to give her time. I won't allow myself to rush or force her, because that's the opposite of natural. It wouldn't be right, either. I meant what I said before - that if she's never ready to say it back, I'll find it within myself to deal. Saying it only to please me would be worse than not saying it at all.

We lie there on the couch for a while, lightly kissing and touching each other. Her book finds its way to the floor, but my drawing stays tucked between us as she turns on her side and wraps herself around my body. Her kisses are saccharine and slow, like she's trying to memorize my mouth and everything inside it. Her fingers spread out so her hands span as much of my back and shoulders as they can, and I smile against her lips as she nudges herself closer, even tighter to me. "You make me feel beautiful," she tells me after a long while has passed, breaking a kiss to speak. When I look at her, I notice her lips are swollen and red, just the way I like them.

"Good," I say. "Because you are."

"I want to try something," she says. "It might be crazy. It might be totally inappropriate...but…"

"What is it?" I ask.

"I want you to draw me naked," she says. "If that's something you'd want to do. I-I know it's weird, but you see my body in a way that I never have. And… and I was hoping that if you drew me… just me, without anything else on, maybe I could start to see myself like you do."

I sit up hastily, and the fact that I'm half-hard doesn't go unnoticed. "April, it's not weird at all," I say. "I'd love to."

"Right now?"

"Right now," I say. "Get undressed and I'll get my easel."

"Lock the doors when you come back," she says, wearing a small smile as I stand up.

I kiss her as an afterthought and stroke her cheekbone with my thumb. "I won't be long," I tell her. I resist the urge to run to the studio, but I don't dawdle by any means. I gather what I need - the easel, graphite, a canvas, other odds and ends - then hurry downstairs to join her again. I lock the doors as she said to do and then turn around to see her; even though I had been expecting a masterpiece, the image in my head couldn't hold a candle to that of which is draped over the couch.

She's entirely nude, save for the wedding ring on her left hand that's lying above her head. When we lock eyes, she tenses and inhales, making her rib cage stand out, but I shake my head. "Just relax," I tell her. "Pretend like I'm not even here."

Her muscles lose their tension as she finds the position she'd first been in. I find a stool and set it up behind the easel, getting comfortable while making sure I have a good view. I want to make sure I don't miss a thing - from the way her hair tumbles over her shoulders to the subtle pricks of her nipples, the soft, concave bowl of her stomach, her lithe thighs and what's tucked between them. "Is it good?" she asks, shifting her hips.

"Lie flat," I say, peering around the canvas. "Your right arm over your head and your left draped across your ribs, so I can see the ring."

She adjusts in the way I tell her and looks to me for approval. I can't get enough of the expression in her eyes. "Like this?" she asks.

"Right leg bent," I say. "Left stays down." She moves accordingly and everything falls into place. "Yes, sweetest, just like that," I say.

All she does is breathe while I work. It's clear, as she lies there, that she has no earthly idea of her beauty; she's so demure as she blinks slowly and keeps her eyes on me - just as steady as mine are on her.

The smoothness of her body is easy to capture with fluid strokes of the graphite pencil. I accentuate its length, the grace in the way her limbs fall, and the natural curl of her hair. I spend time on the minute details like her eyelashes, cupid's bow and fine eyebrows; I don't miss a thing. The room is so quiet that at times, I worry if she'll fall asleep, but she doesn't. She stays alert throughout the process, never growing fidgety or impatient.

There's more eroticism involved than either of us can speak for. The sight of her entirely bare as I'm fully clothed is enough to turn me on, but the fact that she's willingly putting herself on display for both of our pleasure nearly tips me over the edge. It's incredible, how sexy she is without being aware of it. Incredible.

"How's it going?" she asks after about an hour has passed. I've been locked inside my mind, unspeaking, for the entire duration. I've been too concentrated on perfecting her depiction to bother with words.

"Very well," I say, shading a small area of her inner thigh. I can't hold back for much longer, though. I want her so badly, and as she's right in front of me she's nearly impossible to resist. I have the bare bones of the drawing on paper - it won't be hard to finish now. So, I stand up and set my tools down, walking slowly over to her with the ruse of adjusting her body for the portrait.

"What are you doing?" she asks, watching me with doe eyes.

I kneel next to the couch and swipe a bit of hair from her shoulder, pushing it onto the pillow. She watches me with a soft smile and lets me manipulate her, then jumps with surprise as my hand grazes over a puckered nipple. "You look delicious," I tell her, leaning in for a kiss that she readily gives me.

I skim my hand down and get a good grip on her hip, squeezing for good measure. She smiles, winding her arms around my neck to get me closer while moaning into my mouth. I swallow the sound and pull her to rest on her side, closer to where I'm resting on the floor. "Mmm," she whimpers. "You're such a good kisser."

I blink lazily, eyes barely coming open as she watches me with lust in hers. "Come to the studio," I say.

"Why?" she asks.

"I want to paint you," I say, holding her breast while dipping my face into the crook of her neck. I kiss her warm skin, laving my tongue over her throat as I feel her take a slow, cleansing inhale that lifts her chest.

"You can't bring your paint down here?" she says.

"No, no, you misunderstand," I say, lifting up. "I want to paint your body."

"Oh," she says, eyes wide. "You can do that?"

"I can create anything anywhere, as long as you'll let me," I say.

"Have you painted skin before?" she asks. "Like you want to do to me?"

"No," I answer truthfully. "My muse is the only one who's inspired me enough to try it."

She purrs, clinging to my neck so I can sit her up. "Take me to the studio, then," she says, eye contact never faltering.

I lift her perfect, naked form into my arms and carry her up the stairs with confidence, locking the studio door after turning the light on a dim setting. The floor is clean but already covered with years' worth of paint splatters, so I direct her to lie in the middle of it as I gather my colors. "Arms above your head," I say. "And relax, just like before."

Using a new color palate, I take samples of sapphire, ivory, and deep gold. I swirl the brush around in the gold, shiny flecks glinting in the light, then lower the brush to her areola. She flinches at first, unused to the fine hair moving against her skin, but soon goes lax as I continue the repetitive circles. Her back arches as I go further, widening the rings from her areola to the round of her breast and the supple underside, until the whole of it is a small, aureate orb. I do the same to the other, making sure my strokes are calculated and thorough, and by the time I'm through, her nipples stand straight up - all the blood having rushed to them. Her breath comes shallower as she tips up her chin, eyes on the ceiling and ribs pressing insistently through her skin as she struggles to keep composure.

I don't let on that I'm feeling the same, though. Instead, I mix the ivory with the blue to create a color akin to the sky and expertly smear it over her belly. I make sure the paint is applied evenly, stopping just above her belly button after I'm finished creating the abstract design that found its way to my mind's eye. Then, I dip a brush into the deep blue and make small strokes between her hip bones; the action makes her squirm with arousal, pelvis lifting from the cold, hard floor. As I glance between her legs, I see that her lips are already glistening - I've worked her into quite a state.

I create the same design on her back and make defined streaks along the round of her ass, and by the time I'm finished, she's covered in beautiful color. With her fiery hair fanned out around her head, she's a landscape unlike any other I've seen. Her eyes are alive and her pulse is racing, and I don't waste time in stripping my clothes and joining her in a state of total nakedness. "Jackson," she breathes, grappling for my shoulders. "You'll get covered in…"

"Good," I say, overlapping her body as I place one leg between both of hers. My erection rests on her inner thigh, but not for long as she wraps her legs around my waist and pulls me flush against her. I feel the slick coolness of the paint transfer onto my body and I relish the sensation, hands gliding across her skin with ease as the colors blend over both of us.

"Oh, god," she moans when I find her breast with my mouth. The paint is non-toxic, but I regret how differently she tastes as I lick her to the point of no return. She trembles beneath my tongue, fingernails digging into my scalp, and when I come up, the paint has nearly disappeared from that portion of her skin. I can only imagine it's now on my face, in my beard, as I kiss along her inner thighs and find golden imprints left behind. I wipe it away before I go down on her, pressing her thighs apart with both hands as she lifts up to meet my waiting mouth. "Oh, Jackson," she groans, pulling at my hair harder. Her hips grind against my chin as I part her lips with two fingers, licking her in long, slow strokes that send her reeling into another dimension.

I lose track of time as I'm between her thighs, in the heat that I would gladly drown in forever. I only come back to earth as she pushes me away by the forehead, cries echoing throughout the small room and breath coming in tepid bursts. I lift up, panting myself, and look her in the eyes as I say, "You want me to stop?"

"I can't… I can't breathe," she smiles, one hand to her colorful chest. "You're too good. I can't…"

"Oh, yes you can," I say, smirking devilishly as I lower again to find her clit with expert ease.

She screams when I do. One short, staccato shriek as she tries to roll onto her side, but I shove her hips back into place. I move my jaw quickly, roughly, against her and suck on her clit in a defined pattern that I know will bring her to orgasm - and it does. It doesn't happen quietly, either. When April comes, her whole body is involved and I can't get enough of it. Her thighs lock around my head and deafen me - but it's not unpleasant. In fact, it's completely the opposite. I love being at her mercy and knowing I was capable of bringing her to such a pleasure point. She sobs with ecstasy as her legs quake and tremble, hands still in my hair as I suck another orgasm out of her, this one more of an aftershock than an earthquake. By the time her muscles relax and her thighs have gone slack, she's whimpering while trying to catch her breath. Spread eagle, too, which is my favorite way to see her.

"Too good, huh," I murmur, kissing my way up her body to leave a blue lip-print on her cheek.

"Yes," she says. "God, yes, I can't believe how… I just can't…"

"Shhh…" I murmur, kissing her neck as her breath finds its normal rate again.

Punctuating the act, her hips jerk one final time and I can't help but smile in response. I crawl up her body and stroke her outer thigh, cupping her ass so her knee bends in and presses against my side, enveloping me entirely as she holds my face and kisses me hard. I know what that kiss means - it means she's ready for more and I'm more than ready to give it to her. So, with one swift motion, I adjust my hips and sink inside her - all the way. She groans against my lips and holds my head tighter, not letting our bond break, and I don't move. I stay buried within her, relishing how it feels, and she locks her ankles behind my ass to urge me even deeper.

"Oh, fuck," I grunt, mouth moving sloppily over hers.

"Jackson," she says, breaking apart so she can look steadily into my eyes. She blinks, putting those hazel eyes on display, and licks her puffy lips. "I don't want our baby to come from… fucking," she says, then drags the backs of her knuckles down my cheeks. I tip my head to the side and lean into her touch, scooping my hips as I do. Her jaw drops because of it and I feel satisfied as I continue to listen. "I want you to make love to me," she says. "I want our baby to be created that way."

"I'm with you," I say, kissing her surely as if to prove my point.

"I know," she whispers.

Taking what she said to heart, I move fluidly and slow. I don't thrust into her like it's my last day on earth and I'll die without an orgasm; in fact, it's much of the opposite. I roll my hips and take all the time in the world, hitting every nerve as I watch sparks light up behind her eyes. Her mouth stays open as she pants, gripping my shoulder blades as best she can while I make love to her thoroughly and passionately. I don't leave an inch of reachable skin unkissed, and I make sure to worship her as she deserves to be worshiped. She's a work of art in more than the color on her body, but in everything she is.

I badly want to tell her again that I love her, but I don't. I don't want to ruin the moment with the inevitable expectation she'll feel to say it back. Applying pressure isn't the way to go, so I stay silent. I lift my head and look into her eyes while hoping mine convey the correct emotions, and the smile on her lips tells me they do. "You're beautiful," she tells me.

"So are you," I murmur, dropping a kiss to the corner of her jaw. She inhales like she's about to say something else, but no words come. I don't wait for them to, either. Instead, I press my lips to hers and feel the coil wind tight in my groin, threatening to burst at any given moment. Because of this, I pull up to look at her again and she nods - but I still need to ask. "You want this," I say, gritting my teeth as I stave off my orgasm.

"Yes," she sighs.

"I'm gonna come," I say. "You don't want me to pull out?"

She tightens her ankles around my ass to keep my body exactly where it is. "No," she answers definitively.

"Okay," I say.

She closes her eyes and tucks her face close as I come undone, losing the contained rhythm I had found and instead replacing it with one that's uncontrollable. My hips buck wildly against hers, the sound of skin against skin joining that of her breath in the air. I empty everything inside her body and feel euphoric because of it, stars dancing behind my eyes as she clings to me with every ounce of strength she has.

I don't pull out until I get a third orgasm out of her, one that comes quietly and sure. She clings to me like a vine, wrapping every limb around what she can reach, and quivers as it ravages her nerves. She lets out a satisfied-sounding, one-syllabled whimper when it's over, then lets her head flop to the hardwood floor, spent.

I pull out with a slick sound and glance between us to where our bodily fluids have created quite the mess with the paint. We're both covered in a slew of different substances, but there's no rush to clean up. No urgency. We're allowed to lie here in bask in the afterglow of what we did; what we might have made. So, we do. And before I can draw her nearer, so does so herself. She plasters herself to my side and wraps a leg around me, resting a flat hand in the middle of my chest where paint still dries.

"Do you think it worked?" I ask.

"I don't know," she says, still breathless. "But that was the best sex I've…" She yawns, which makes me smile. "Ever had."

…

"So, have you two had relations since our conversation?"

I shake my head and roll my eyes, on the phone with my mother a week later. I'm sitting on the edge of the bed as April is in the bathroom, soaking in the tub with candles lit. I can hear the soft rise and fall of her voice as she sings to herself, which would make me happy if the voice in my ear weren't so annoying. "That's none of your business," I snap.

"But oh, it is," she says.

"It's not," I say. "I don't know why you care, anyway. You won't see a cent of the money."

"So, she's pregnant?"

"What? I… no, I don't know."

"Then there's no money to worry about."

"You know what I mean," I say. "The second half of my inheritance is exactly that - mine. It's not for you to worry about, because my affairs are not yours. You won't touch that money."

"Oh, Jackson," she says. "You're so sensitive when it comes to your little wife, aren't you?"

"Please, stop."

"You never used to be touchy when it came to keeping things within the family. But now, you two are a unit without me, aren't you?"

"That's typically how marriage works," I say. "You, as the mother, are not included. You don't get a say in how we arrange our funds."

"Oh, they're hers now, as well?" she prompts. "That's interesting."

"Of course they are," I say. "April is my wife. What's hers is mine and what's mine is hers."

"You have quite a bit more on the line," she says. "What's hers is yours. So, what would that be? The tattered blanket she came with and the hair on her head?"

"Stop talking," I say with a clenched jaw. "I won't let you speak about her like that. You won't belittle her."

"Take a breath, son," she says. "She's my daughter-in-law. I would never harbor ill will towards her." I make a noncommittal sound in my throat. "I wouldn't," she insists, then feigns pain. "I'm hurt to think you'd assume so."

I hear movement in the bathroom, then the sound of water draining. Shortly after, April's soft voice calls, "Baby?"

"Mom, I can't talk," I say, looking over my shoulder. "Just a second, sweetest. I'll be right there."

"I wasn't finished with you," my mother says. "I'm interested to know whether or not you've been trying. This is information I need to know, Jackson."

"No, it's not," I say.

"I don't appreciate the way you're treating me," she says. "Remember who brought you into this earth, son. I raised you better than to disrespect me like this."

"It's not disrespect, mother," I say. "I need to go."

I hang up without saying goodbye to find April watching me from the bathroom, a fluffy white towel wrapped around her body. Her hair is in a dry, loose bun atop her head, and her eyes look a bit troubled. "Was that your mother?" she asks.

"Yes," I answer, dropping my elbows to my knees so I can rub my temples.

She walks over, feet making soft sounds on the carpet, before stopping directly in front of me. She lifts my head from where it's resting and holds my jaw in her palms, cradling my face in the gentle way only she can. "Did she upset you?" she asks. I nod my head. "What happened?"

I let out a long, exasperated sigh. "I don't want to upset you, too," I say.

"You won't," she assures me, then sits beside me to take one of my hands in both of hers. Her skin is impossibly soft - I have no idea how she gets it like that. "Just talk to me."

I pinch the bridge of my nose with my free hand and raise my eyebrows. "She asked if we'd had sex since the meeting," I say. "Moreover, asking if there's a possibility that you're pregnant."

Apprehension flashes across her face as she asks, "What'd you tell her?"

"Nothing," I say. "I told her it isn't her business, though she continues to claim otherwise."

April runs her top teeth over her bottom lip, creating a straight, white line in their wake. "I mean, there is a possibility," she says, moving to press a flat hand against her stomach. "But I don't know."

"I know there is," I say.

She looks at me with guarded eyes. "It's been over a week," she says. "One of those high-end tests would be accurate."

I stroke her knuckles with my thumb, strong and sure. "Do you want to take one?" I ask, then amend my thought. "Don't do it just because of my mother."

"No," she says, shaking her head. "No… I've been wondering myself. Haven't you?"

It's been the only thing on my mind since we had sex, but I haven't let her know. I kept it to myself because I was unsure how she felt in the aftermath. I didn't want to seem too excited if it's something she's dreading. I still don't know how to properly react. "Yes," I say. "Ever since."

"Yeah, me too," she says. "But right away, you know… wouldn't have been accurate."

"So, you want to take a test?" I ask. She nods. "I'll have Calliope run to the pharmacy."

When Calliope comes back with a few, top-notch brands of pregnancy tests in tow, the expression on her face is hard to read. "I wasn't made aware you were trying to get pregnant," she says, handing me the bag.

"I'm not," I say smartly. "April is."

She rolls her eyes. "Don't play stupid, Jackson. It isn't a one-man job."

"April only needs one man," I say. "Me."

"Stop beating around the goddamn bush and talk to me," she snaps. "Are you trying to have a baby, or was this an 'oopsie' deal?"

I stay curt and pulled together, standing straight with set shoulders. "We're trying," I say.

"Huh," she responds, eyeing me.

"What does that mean?" I question.

"It means 'huh,'" she retorts.

"I don't have time to stand here and let you pass judgment on our decisions," I say.

"Does this have anything to do with the second half the inheritance?" she asks.

I blink hard and inhale so deeply it increases the size of my chest. "Of course it does," I say tersely. "Now, if you'll excuse me." I turn on my heel and head up the stairs to where April is waiting - still in the bedroom. I find her sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, hair combed now as it begins to curl around her shoulders. "She brought them," I say.

"Oh," she says, looking up as if she hadn't noticed me before. "Okay. I… um, well, I might as well."

"Sure," I say, and my stomach jumps as I hand her the multiple boxes.

She doesn't invite me into the bathroom and I don't call attention to the fact that I wanted her to. Instead, I pace the room and shove my hands into my pockets, closing my eyes as I try to focus on anything besides what's behind that closed door.

It seems like an eternity that April is in there, and the sound of the door opening makes me jump. I turn around while pretending not to have a sense of urgency, eyes on her right hand as it's full of the tests I'd given her. I can't read the look on her face whatsoever - it's eerily calm, but there's plenty toiling beneath that facade.

She takes a step forward and sets the tests down on the top of her vanity, all five of them in a line. They all read the same thing - and as if I needed a clearer picture, with no intonation she states, "Negative."


	15. Chapter 15

**APRIL**

I wasn't quite sure what result I expected to see on the pregnancy test, no less the results I wanted. In my heart of hearts, as I sat inside the bathroom and waited for them to load, I was sure I wasn't ready. I was sure a negative answer would come with relief, that a weight would lift from my shoulders. I'm not yet burdened with the stone of life in my belly, I'm not yet carrying the Avery legacy - Jackson's heir. But when I looked at the negativity staring at me, lined up on the bathroom counter, I felt no positive emotions. I couldn't put my finger on exactly why, but I felt heavy.

The look on Jackson's face didn't lighten me. I drop the result and his lips part, press together, then part again. He blinks rapidly and appears caught off guard, which isn't a common look for him. "Negative," he repeats, voice very small.

Nothing about my husband is small. His presence, his ideas, his stature. The word simply doesn't fit him; I doubt it ever will. So, when I hear his voice sound like it does, it sends me teetering sideways - so much so that I have to grip the dresser for support. "Yeah," I mutter, eyes still on his muddled expression.

In this moment, I know one thing for sure. Something that I can't believe took as long as it did to sink in. He wants my baby. He wants to create life with me and hold it in his arms; he wants us to be a family. He wanted, more than anything, for these tests to read positively. I'm not sure what to think about that. The look in his eyes is nearly decimating as he scans the sticks where they sit on the dresser, going over them like they might read something new if he waits long enough. But, in the way we both know they won't, they don't change.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, gathering them to hide the small screens. I don't want to look at them anymore. And even worse, I don't want to watch him look at them anymore. The desperation he's trying to hide is becoming too much to bear.

He loves me. I understand that and I fully believe it. He loves me and he wants a child, he wants to start a family with me. The feeling of being wanted is foreign and I'm unsure of how to process it. What if I do something to change his mind? What if one day, he leaves me to take care of everyone on my own, like I'd grown so used to doing? He told me that would never happen, but that's easy to say when everything in life has been handed to you. For me, a person who's had to work to the bone for everything I have, it's not quite so easy to hear - or fully believe.

"You don't have to apologize," he says. "It's not your fault."

"It might be," I answer instantly, like a reflex.

"We'll make sure you're okay," he tells me.

A beat passes where I shift the tests in my closed fist, listening to the clicking sound they make as they move against one another. "You wanted them to be positive, didn't you?" I ask. He doesn't answer with words, but he does answer. He gives me a small nod of his head, but can't meet my eyes. I wonder what he assumes I'm thinking. "I know," I say, sighing.

"Did you?" he asks.

"I… I don't know," I say.

Another pocket of silence. This time, he rests one hand on the dresser and leans his weight on it, shoulder collapsing towards his ear. "You don't have to agree," he says.

"I know," I say. "I just… I guess what I'm trying to ask is…" I sigh and chew on the inside of my cheek, unsure of how to word it. "I don't know."

"You're asking if I really want a baby, or if I want the money," he fills in, hitting the nail on the head.

"I don't think you… you want one for money," I say. "I meant for the inheritance, that's what I meant."

"I understood your point," he says. "I can see it all over your face."

"Oh."

"I want…" he begins, treading water as he navigates through his thoughts. "A family with you. Not for the money. April, believe me when I say that I could take or leave the money-"

"You can, but I can't," I say.

"Please, let me finish," he says gently. "In theory, I could take or leave the money, but I know it's important to you and your cause. It's important to me, too - I want nothing more than to carry out my father's legacy through art in public schools. But above all that, you are my wife. I know it makes you uncomfortable to hear this, but the reason I want a family with you is because I love you. Even if you refused my child, I would still love you."

His eyes shine when he says it and my heart squeezes in on itself; I want to make him happy - as happy as he's made me. I want his child not only for that reason, though. I wouldn't bring a baby into the world if I didn't wholly want it. Our child will be wanted, loved, and cared for. Our child will spend every day laughing and smiling, safe and warm, never having to worry or want for anything. Our child will stay a child for as long as time allows. I'll nurture them like my circumstances didn't allow me to be nurtured, and I have no doubt that Jackson will make the best father. I want a baby. I want his baby. But I'm still terrified of everything that encompasses.

I want to raise a child with him and I want the other half of the inheritance, because creating the foundation is the only thing that will make me like myself again. And not only like myself, but recognize myself - the same me I once was so familiar with. I want to know her again. Since the birth of my first child, I haven't looked in the mirror and known who I am. I liked the version of myself pre-pregnancy because I was familiar with her. And ever since she did something so out of character, I haven't wanted to get close to her again. Maybe, after putting good into the universe, that will change. I can only hope it will change.

I set the tests back down and close the space between us, winding my arms around Jackson's waist to give him a sturdy hug. I press my cheek against his chest and feel him take a deep breath, slowly wrapping me up in his grip after. "I want to keep trying," I murmur, face a bit squished.

"What?" he says, surprised.

I pick my head up and tip my chin so I can look into his eyes. "I want to keep trying for a baby."

"You do?" he asks.

I nod then reach to circle my arms around his neck. I latch my fingers together at the nape and he widens his palms across the small of my back, massaging me gently. "And it doesn't make me uncomfortable to hear you say you love me," I say, eyes wide open and vulnerable.

"I just thought-"

"I know," I say. "But it doesn't."

"Okay," he says, dipping to kiss me. Our lips meet and we pull away for a short moment only to come back for more. My chest buzzes, swarms with words that I want to say, but there's no getting past my lips. For some reason, I can't open my mouth and give him what he so badly wants. I'm not sure what's stopping me, but I don't want to think about it right now.

"But we can go to a specialist, right?" I say, hands flat on his chest. "To make sure that everything… works?"

"Of course, just like we said before," he agrees. "Whenever you want."

"Okay," I say.

So, a couple weeks later, we go to a renowned gynecologist who checks everything I was worried about. And though it pains me to do so, I tell her my history of birth without going into detail, and she tells me nothing should affect future pregnancies. Just to make sure, though, I get an ultrasound and a physical exam, both of which come back with healthy results. My body is ready to host a child and if we time things correctly, it shouldn't take long to get pregnant. I sit with that fact in the exam room after the OB/GYN leaves, eyes on my bare knees as I'm still in the cloth gown.

"What're you thinking, sweet pea?" Jackson asks, interrupting the silence.

I look up as he snapped me out of the thoughtful haze I'd found myself in. "Nothing," I answer. Then say, "Everything."

He gives me a soft, sympathetic smile before saying, "Me, too."

…

A few days later, I'm on the screened-in porch reading as gray clouds toil overhead. I can see them through the walls that are windows as I look up from the pages of the book that I've been reading all morning while Jackson's been at a meeting of finances, and up until now my concentration hasn't wavered. I hear movement behind me in the house, though, which means he's finally come home and will probably make his presence known at any given moment. I've found that, when we're in vicinity of one another, he doesn't like to be alone. He prefers to be near me at all times, even if we're not participating in the same activity. I think it's sweet, how he seeks me out without consciously realizing it.

"Sweetest?" he calls, right on cue.

"On the porch," I return, face still turned down as I try to absorb the words on the page.

He appears moments later a bit breathless. "Hi," he says brightly. "Oh, sorry. I didn't know you were reading."

I look up then, a smile in my eyes. "No, it's okay," I say. "Hi, honey."

"Hey," he says, both hands on my shoulders as he stands behind me and gives me a kiss on the cheek. "How're you?"

"Fine," I answer, which is true. "How did the meeting go? How was your mother?"

"My mother," he says. "Was my mother, and I don't have much of a desire to talk about her - because that means thinking about her. And you, my darling, are the only one I want to think about right now."

I can't smile but smile at that, saying, "Jackson."

He winds his arms around to rest on my chest plate and kisses the side of my neck, causing me to tilt my head in order to give him more skin to touch. "Hmm," he says, moving to the round of my shoulder. "Am I bothering you? If I am, I'll let you read. I just couldn't stop thinking about you while I was away."

I rest my head on the back of the couch so I can look at him. "You're thinking about a baby again," I say amusedly.

"You've gotten impressively skilled at reading my mind," he says, pressing a few deliberate kisses to my left ear to make me laugh.

I close the book after marking my page and hold his head as he showers me with affection, unable to keep my giggles at bay. "Jackson, Jackson, come on," I say. "We can't do this here."

"Why's that?" he asks, hands sneaking lower in order to grab both of my breasts. He gives them a playful squeeze and blows in my ear again, which makes me squeal.

"The windows!" I shrill. "Anyone could see us."

"Anyone would be so lucky," he says. "Your beautiful body and mine creating a child only we could. We should start charging."

"Jackson, enough," I say, swatting him lightly. "Take me up to bed."

"Whatever you say, Miss Modesty," he says, lifting me easily into his arms. He carries me up the stairs and into our bedroom, then shuts the door as I crawl to the middle of the bed and wait for him to join me. I undress slowly, unbuttoning my blouse as he comes closer, and he makes a sound of approval in his throat. "You are so gorgeous," he says, eyeing me.

"Even without the paint?" I ask, referencing our intimacy from a few weeks ago.

"Even more," he says, hovering over me without a shirt on. "This way, I can see every inch of your beautiful skin."

To emphasize his point, he unclasps my bra and tosses it, putting his mouth on my nipples as soon as he does. My muscles go slack and I widen my arms out to either side, taking a deep inhale as I wind my legs around his middle. "Jackson, I…" I sigh, heat coiling between my thighs as he sucks roughly on my breast. "Shit."

"Yeah, baby?" he asks, picking his head up. He thumbs the nipple that he just abandoned, making sure it stays hard as he looks into my eyes.

"I'm ovulating," I say. "Are we… we're trying, aren't we?" He gives me a look that says I should be telling him, not asking. So, I change my tone and rewire my thoughts to do just that. "I don't want you to pull out," I say firmly.

"Then I won't," he says, lowering again to bury his face in my neck.

"We might make a baby," I say, dragging my nails down his back as he kisses my stomach, drawing random patterns with his tongue around my belly button.

Our process hasn't been easy. Sex in order to get pregnant feels different than it was before. Less spontaneous in a way, though on the surface it seems like it's not. I tend to get lost in my head and overthink things; I find myself getting jealous of TV and movie characters who get pregnant by accident. They make it look so easy, which makes women like me feel lesser when it doesn't happen right away. When I get too wrapped up in my own thoughts, sometimes I see my femininity as stripped away. My body can't do one of the most important functions that it was designed for right when I need it to. Sometimes, I feel betrayed by my own system.

"We might," he responds, kissing me soundly on the mouth. "I hope we do."

"Me, too," I say truthfully, watching him as he goes lower to press my thighs apart and widen then as far as they'll go. He keeps a flat hand on either one and looks at me with sparkling eyes, then descends to press a hot kiss right above my lips. "That's not how you make a baby," I say quietly.

"A little foreplay never hurt," he says, stroking my pubic bones with his thumbs. "I'll make you feel good, sweet pea."

"Okay," I say, then let my head fall back to hit the pillow. As he opens his mouth and slides his tongue inside me, filling the room with wet, salacious sounds, I stare at the ceiling and wait for my mind to clear. That's what I love best about when he goes down on me; I totally forget everything I might be worried about.

That's not the case now, though. My thoughts won't quiet or slow down, and my body retains its tension. Even when he parts my lips with two fingers and leaves no space between his face and my core, something in my brain just won't connect. I'm absent, not playing an active role in my own sex life.

The thought of faking an orgasm crosses my mind, but I push it away quickly. With Jackson, I don't fake it. That would go against everything we've ever done, and my feelings for him aren't superficial. It would be a lie, and he would see right through me. I refuse to do that, so I have to divert him elsewhere. It's clear that I won't come from oral tonight, which I'm thoroughly disappointed by.

"Baby," I say, one hand flat on the top of his head.

"Mmm, I know," he murmurs, voice lost inside my heat. "Lay back, I'll get you there."

"No, no, I don't want it," I say, and he picks his head up immediately to give me a confused glance. "I want you inside me, that's what I want," I amend. "I don't wanna wait."

"Oh," he says, licking his lips. "Alright, then." He kisses his way up my body to find my mouth again, sucking on my lips as he threads his fingers through my hair. He scratches my scalp with his nails as he guides his dick inside, and I sigh as I welcome his body within my own. "Mmm, god," he moans, kissing me again. "Amazing."

Without hesitation, he begins to move his hips at a regular, powerful rate. He scoops them with the skill of someone very practiced, and hits a spot inside me that only he can. It feels good, I like having his body so close, but it's still not enough to shake me out of the fog my brain is in. I'm not in the right headspace and it's becoming achingly obvious. It's clear on his face that he sees it, but he hasn't said anything yet. His brows are set in low in concentration, though; his jaw clenched and tight.

I try to make something happen, but all I can think about is the baby. The life we're trying to create that feels so unreachable, so out of touch. It feels like, now that I want it, it will never be mine simply because the universe doesn't want me to have it. I toss that thought around for a while, wondering if that degree of cruelty is something I deserve. Jackson would tell me no, but the version of myself from even just a few weeks ago would tell me yes. I'm not sure what I think now. I want a family with my husband. I will take care of this baby. This baby will be okay. This baby will be ours and it will make us whole. I'll do everything right and swear by it.

"April," Jackson says jarringly. "Where are you?"

"Right here," I say, though even I hear how disjointed my voice sounds.

"Are you?" he asks, and I notice he's gone still. "Is something wrong?"

"No," I say. "I'm just… I'm sorry. I was thinking."

He pulls out and I can't help but notice how hard he still is. His penis is glistening, veins bulging along the shaft, and I resist the urge to reach out and touch it. "You've been drifting away during sex ever since we decided to start trying," he says. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"No," I say.

"The female orgasm creates a more welcoming environment for healthy sperm," he tells me; I know he's done his research, so I trust his words. I have no doubt that fact is true, but it's not something I can so easily control.

"I can't stop thinking about what we're doing, though," I say. "The fact that we're trying. What if it doesn't work?"

"Then we'll try again," he states simply.

"What if it doesn't _ever_ work?" I refute.

He sighs and rolls off to lie next to me, and I turn on my side to face him. "Here's what you need to do," he says. "Just forget that we're trying. Put it out of your mind."

"I can't," I say. "It's all I ever think about."

"But for the next hour, pretend that it's not," he says encouragingly. "Pretend we're… in the Maldives." I nod and he says, "Close your eyes." I do. He sets a hand on my stomach and drags his fingernails across my skin, giving me chills in the process. "Imagine we're on the islands, on our honeymoon. Remember how beautiful it was, how warm the breeze felt blowing on your skin?"

He breathes warm air into my arm and my whole body shudders. "I remember," I say.

He kisses my shoulder and moves his hand lower, cupping my core in one hand as I spread my thighs to give him room. "Remember our room," he says. "And how we would lay naked with the windows open, curtains blowing in. And how we could see the bright blue water instantly, right when we woke up."

"I can see it," I say, picturing the image so vividly behind my closed eyelids. It was the most gorgeous sight I had ever seen.

"Go back to when we had sex for the first time. When I made love to you like a husband should to a wife, and you made me your own. It all happened right there on that bed, and we soaked up every beautiful second. Remember how that felt?"

"Mm-hmm," I hum.

"I'll be right back," he says. "Sit up." I do as he says and wait, then lighten when he comes back holding a flute of champagne - and without having to ask, I know it's my favorite. Dom Perignon. "Here," he says, handing me the glass.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" I joke, taking a sip.

"No," he says. "It's to make you happy. To put you in the moment, and to remind you that we're making love, not participating in a contest. I love having sex with you because it's you, April, not because I'm trying to race to an end goal. Don't overthink it. Just be with me."

"Be with you," I say, taking another drink. "Come here."

He scoots closer and I rest one hand on his chest as I tip my flute against his lips to give him a sip of the champagne. He keeps eye contact as he drinks, and I down the rest while he swallows and makes his Adam's apple bob. I set the flute down and straddle his hips as he rests against the headboard, then tilt my head to kiss him.

I trace the bow of his top lip and the pout of the bottom one with the tip of my tongue, sucking on the bottom one after to relish the taste of champagne. His erection is insistent as it presses against my leg, reminding me what it wants, and I can't deny that I'm now in the same mindset. I don't waste time for that reason - I sink down onto his length and undulate my hips at an even pace, hugging his head to my chest as I control the way we move.

As in sync as we could possibly ever be, we end up coming at the same time. My body vibrates and jolts on top of his as he shoots off inside me, emptying himself into a vessel we both hope will bear the weight.

After it's over, we don't move. I've found that neither of us like to jump into anything else directly after finishing, we like to stay and soak up the moment. I run the hair at the nape of his neck through my fingers and feel his heartbeat against my skin, and when I turn to kiss his cheek I taste his sweat on my lips. Everything about him is mine. I recognize it all. I come to realize that I know him better than I've ever known anyone, and I've allowed him to say as much for me.

By definition, there's no greater way than that to showcase love. So, I say it.

"I love you, Jackson," I whisper, lips moving against his ear, voice as quiet as it needs to be.

Instantly, his arms tighten around my lower back. He holds my body as close as it will come, then kisses my sternum. He doesn't raise his head when he speaks and he doesn't have to. Not only do I hear him clearly, but I feel it when he says, "I love you, too."

…

Four months later, I wake up shirtless as I sometimes do. The air in our bedroom is warm and soft with sleep, but I can tell Jackson is wakeful beside me. He's turned onto his side and I can feel his eyes, though mine aren't yet open. I smile to myself, then feel his lips on my outer arm. "Sweetest," he whispers, voice raspy in the morning. "You're showing."

I open my eyes right away. First to look at him, then my bare belly. "What?" I say.

He kisses my arm again, this time with a smile. "Look," he says, then rests a hand at the apex of my ribs. Then, he slides it lower and I watch it rise with the newfound swell of my stomach. We've been busy the last couple of weeks, seemingly without a moment to spare. I haven't studied my pregnant belly in a while, and this morning is our first slow one. At 15 weeks pregnant, I've begun to show.

"I have a bump," I say, gasping as he continues to trace its roundness.

"You have a bump," he says.

I giggle softly, overlapping his hand on my skin. "He's really in there," I tell Jackson as if he isn't aware.

"She is," he counters, flashing his eyes at me.

"He," I correct.

He clears his throat for effect, saying, "She."

I smile to myself and shake my head, my eyes still resting on our entwined fingers resting atop the baby bump. "I'm happy," I murmur, voice just loud enough for him to hear.

"Me, too," he says, kissing my temple and lingering after. 'You've made me so happy."

I pause for a moment, then ask, "Happy enough to cancel our dinner with your mother later?"

He laughs; the kind of laugh that lets me know he hadn't been expecting that. "Funny," he says. "You know how much I wish that were possible. But no. If we cancel again, she'll come to the house. And…"

"You're right," I say. We've already begun to set up the nursery, and Jackson and I have agreed that's not something Catherine should be allowed a say in. And if she were to see it, a say is exactly what she would have.

"I'll make sure it's not long," he assures me. "You're with child. Late nights aren't possible anymore."

I hold my belly as I get out of bed and stand sideways in the mirror, covering my bare breasts as I size myself up. "I see it," I say, using my free arm to rest beneath the swell.

Jackson comes up behind me, as shirtless as I am. "Don't cover these," he says, lowering my right arm. "You're beautiful. Everything about you."

"I can't handle you," I say, turning to look up at him.

He laughs a little and kisses me, holding my chin as he does. "Don't lie," he says. "Not only can you handle me, you have me in the palm of that little hand."

"Soon to be in someone else's even littler hand," I say, still skimming my belly.

"Very true," he says.

We go about our day as usual until it's time to leave for the restaurant. Jackson had suggested having dinner at Catherine's estate, but she quickly turned down the idea and demanded we go someplace expensive. I've only just begun learning how to dress my new body, so it takes me a while to find a dress that fits and makes me look pregnant instead of just oddly shaped. Once I do, though, I'm happy with the result and Jackson is, too.

"You look stunning," he tells me on the way to the car.

"Does the bump look okay?" I ask, adjusting the fabric as I sit down.

"Better than okay," he says, buckling in. "You both look perfect. Really, sweetest."

"Thanks," I say, wringing my hands.

"Don't be nervous," he says. "She's just a person."

"A person who happens to be your very controlling, very manipulative mother who would rather not have me in your family," I say.

"That's not true," he says.

"It's mostly true," I say.

I spend the rest of the ride as a bundle of nerves. I've been much more susceptible to anxiety and intrusive thoughts since becoming pregnant, both of which I have a hard time controlling. I'm still becoming familiar with this version of myself, and I've needed help in doing so.

As soon as I step out of the car, I'm bombarded with flashes, camera clicks, and loud voices. It comes as a shock; we haven't had a public spotting in months. I don't know why it happened - it's not like we've been in hiding. Instantly, tears spring to my eyes as I'm frozen in place, waiting for Jackson to shield me from the mob of people.

"April! Are you pregnant?"

"Are you carrying the Avery legacy?"

"How much did they pay you to do that?"

"Once the baby is born, where will you go?"

"How do you feel about birthing a child who's already famous?"

"April, over here! Can you give us a smile?"

"Come," Jackson says, swooping in just in time. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and literally takes me under his wing to walk into the restaurant, matching stride as he bursts through the front door and leave the cacophony outside. "Are you okay?" he asks, keeping his arm around me while ducking to look at my face.

I nod shakily, sniffling while wiping under my eyes - carefully, so not to smudge my makeup. "I think so," I say, voice trembling.

"Shhh," he says, stroking my cheek. "It's okay. We're safe. We'll leave from the back; you won't have to do that again."

"Why were they here?" I ask, looking to either side to make sure no one's watching. With my luck, I'd turn into another headline about a mental breakdown. "How did they know we were here?"

Something sparks behind Jackson's eyes and his expression becomes flooded with thick disappointment. "My mother, probably," he says, defeated.

"What?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "She probably told them _she_ was going to be here. She enjoys the attention; she finds it keeps her relevant. And when her people told the agencies, they probably tacked on the fact that we'd be here, too."

"Why?" I ask.

"Like I said, attention," he responds. "Relevancy. I don't know. I've never really understood; I just went along with it."

"I don't like it," I say.

"I know," he says. "I don't-"

"Son!" Catherine says, interrupting by appearing in the entryway of the dining room. "April."

I look up and attempt to make myself presentable. I don't like to show emotion around her because I'm sure she sees it as a sign of weakness. I try to be as placid and flat as I can because that makes me less of a target. "Hello, mother," Jackson says, never letting go of my hand.

"What are you doing out here? Did they not tell you I have a table ready?" She gives him a look. "You're late."

"Well, we got caught up with the photographers," he says sternly.

"Oh, them?" she says, then rolls her eyes. "Please, Jackson. After all these years, you still let them get to you? It's time to toughen up."

He doesn't bother with a response. Instead, she leads the way into the immaculate dining room and sits at a table by the far wall, one set for three. She's on one side with Jackson and me on the other, though I'm surprised that she didn't sequester me on the single side. Once we get settled and order drinks, Jackson asks politely, "So, how have you been, mother?"

She ignores his question entirely and looks at me directly. "You're showing," she says pointedly.

"Oh," I say, surprised. One hand gravitates to my belly due to her words, and I find myself stroking it absentmindedly. It comforts me in a way I hadn't expected. "Yeah. Yes. I am."

"So, the situation has become real," she says, taking wine from the waiter without acknowledging his presence. "Hasn't it?"

"Well, now that the tabloids know, there's no way it couldn't," Jackson snaps, and my stomach sinks. I hadn't even realized, but he's right. By tomorrow morning, everyone in the world will have access to the information that I'm pregnant and carrying an Avery child. I feel exploited and the violation of privacy makes me sick. I have nothing to say in response.

"They were bound to find out sometime," Catherine says.

"They were going to find out on our terms," he says, voicing what I so badly wish I could. "We were going to tell them ourselves, in our own words. But you've made that impossible. Now, they'll get to run with the story. Who knows what garbage they'll come up with?"

"I didn't do anything, son," she says. "All I did was simply arrive."

"Bullshit," Jackson says, which makes me jump. I've never heard him use such an acerbic tone around his mother, such malice laced in his curse words.

"I will not be spoken to like that," Catherine says. "I came here for a nice dinner. You will not ruin it." Jackson grits his teeth and his cheeks bulge because of it. It's clear he doesn't know what to say or how to dig his way out of the hole she always throws him into. "As I was saying," she continues. "I bet the baby is becoming all the more real to you now that you're showing." She addresses the statement at me, so I have to respond. I give her a terse, wary nod of the head and she seems adequately pleased. "And when the baby is born - pray it's a boy - when he's born, that's when you'll receive the money." She looks at Jackson. "And Jesus Christ, Jackson, please tell me you've given up on that silly art foundation idea."

"No, I haven't," he says confidently. "We'll be using half of the money for the art foundation and the other half for something close to April's heart."

Catherine looks to me and I wish she wouldn't. "And what's that, dear?" she asks. "I hope it's something better than the throwaway cause my son thinks he's donating to." She rolls her eyes. "Just like his father. Tossing money where it doesn't belong, to people who don't know how to use it."

My hands grow clammy and I'm sure my cheeks redden. The last thing I want to do is get shamed in the way Jackson did. "I…" I try and wet my lips, but my mouth is full of cotton. "I… well, um… I…"

"Good god," she says. "If you're going to be a part of this family, you're going to have to learn how to use your voice. That is, if you have one."

"She doesn't have to tell you anything, mother," Jackson says, cutting in. "It's not your business."

She narrows her eyes at him. "I don't know why you continue to say that when I continue to tell you that you're wrong," she says. "That mansion of yours is on my property. We're part of the same family, the same blood. This child is my legacy as he is yours. You think I won't have a say in how he's brought up and what kind of life he leads? Oh no, son. You're sorely mistaken if that's what you think."

I blink hard and thank the waiter effusively when he brings the appetizer, but I don't touch a single bit. Jackson and Catherine continue to argue across the table, throwing around words like 'boarding school,' 'heir,' and 'blue blood.' I begin to lose track of the conversation and removing myself works better than getting trampled by my mother-in-law.

So, I stay quiet. All through the appetizer, dinner and dessert, I barely speak a word. If I'm directly addressed I respond accordingly, but that's it. By the time it's over and time to leave, I've never wanted to be home more than I do right then. Jackson takes my hand and leads us out the back and, as promised, there are no photographers. Catherine, expecting just as much of a to-do as when she arrived, exited from the front.

In the car, we don't speak. Jackson is seething, that much is clear, and I don't know if I want to open that can of worms tonight. I'm not sure if I have the energy. By the time we get home, he's cooled down a little but I've only grown heavier with thoughts of everything that transpired over dinner. But instead of the uncomfortable, out-of-place feeling I had as we were eating, I feel protective and defensive not for myself, but for the tiny life that I'm growing.

I keep quiet as I get ready for bed. I change into a dark green set of pajamas that are silk and give my skin plenty of room to breathe, and I slip against the sheets as I crawl under them. When Jackson joins me his body is still rigid, so I beckon him closer without words and open my chest so he has a place to rest his head.

We lie like this for a while as I stroke his hair and listen to him breathe deeply. He doesn't fall asleep and neither do I; though my body is bone-tired, my mind could go all night. And if I'm not careful, it just might. He rests a hand on my belly and pushes up my shirt, rubbing his hand in circles over our little light.

I kiss his forehead and close my eyes, hearing his mother's voice reverberate through my mind. She wants everything for our child that I would never dream of, everything I'm dead-set against. I don't want to raise a spoiled, entitled child who gets everything they want. I want our baby to always be warm, clothed, and fed, but I don't want them to live the satin lifestyle that Catherine imagines. I want them to get dirty, to play in the mud, to have a handful of siblings to wrestle with. I don't want them in board meetings when they're 15 and I don't want them in private school - no less boarding school thousands of miles away. I want my children to be exactly that; mine. Mine and Jackson's to raise the way _we_ want, not the way Catherine wants. I won't have her stealing my baby from me. I already had one ripped out of my arms against my will; I'll die before I let it happen again.

"Jackson," I say, and my voice surprises me. He lifts his head to look me in the eyes with a sober expression - so sober, it's like he's been reading my mind the whole time.

"Hmm?"

I blink hard, sure of what I want to say. I can say it to him. If there's anyone whom I can talk to, it's him. And this is something he needs to know. So, I say it. "I don't want to raise our child in this life," I tell him.

Shockingly, Jackson doesn't miss a beat when he answers. He looks at me with that same clear expression, opens his mouth and says, "Then we won't."


	16. Chapter 16

_This is the last chapter before the epilogue!_

…

 **JACKSON**

It's clear that April hadn't expected those words to come from my mouth. Her expression tells me everything I need to know; she's no good at hiding her thoughts. With high brows and wide eyes, her lips part slightly as she takes a soft inhale. As she's been pregnant, the edges of her body have become rounder and I love her this way. Though it isn't the right time now, I find myself wanting to kiss her senseless.

"What?" she says, keeping her voice very quiet. "Jackson, what do you mean?"

"What I said," I clarify. "We don't have to raise our child here."

Creases appear on her forehead, showing how troubled she is. "I…" she stammers, eyebrows knitting together as her lips form a puckered bow. "I don't know what you're saying." I sit up so I can look at her face properly, leaning on one elbow as she remains on her back, hands folded over her smooth, swollen belly. Her shirt is gathered beneath her breasts, bunched from how I had manipulated it, so her skin is bare. "Where would we go?"

"Anywhere you want," I answer.

She flattens her hands now, stroking her skin for comfort. She blinks quickly, eyes darting away from mine, and bends her knees so her feet are flat on the mattress. "Jackson, you're not making sense," she says.

"What doesn't make sense?" I ask earnestly.

"We can't just leave," she responds. "I've spent my whole life in Chicago. Your whole life is here."

"The life I want is the one with you in it," I say. "For me, home is where you are. Not a specific place. I don't care where we are, as long as I have you. That's all I want."

"You can't be serious," she whispers, like she's scared of the sentiment. "You'd… you'd just up and leave all this?"

"It doesn't matter to me," I say. "You and our child matter. I never knew what it felt like to love someone more than myself until you came. And when you got pregnant, I felt it even further. I love you, sweetest, and I want the best for our family."

She pauses for a long moment, then meets my eyes. "What your mother said scared me," she says, lower lip trembling. "And she called those paparazzi. She did that to us. And she… she wants all these things for our baby that I could never imagine. Ever. I don't want them raised in the way that…" She knows what she wants to say, but cuts herself off.

I already know what she's thinking, though. "You don't want our child raised in the way that I was," I say.

"No, that's not it," she says. "I know your father was good to you. And you will be so good to our baby, I know that. I do know that, Jackson."

"I know," I say. "But we're talking about my mother."

"Yes," she agrees, almost shamefully.

"And I'm with you," I say. "I don't want her front and center in our child's life. I don't want you to feel overshadowed or like you don't have a voice. I want none of that for either of us. That's why I think we need to leave."

"Leave?" she echoes. "How can we just leave?"

"We pack our things and get on a plane," I say.

"A plane," she parrots, seemingly unable to stop. She's shocked, that's clear. "What about… this house? And everything in it?"

"I've told you, it doesn't matter to me," I say. "My mother made it clear that this house is hers to reign over. As long as we live here, she has control over us, too. I don't think that's something you want."

"No," she says.

"I don't, either," I say. "I'm ready to start a life with you. A life where my last name doesn't matter."

"You'd leave everything behind?" she asks. I nod. "But your studio," she says with concern.

"I'll bring all of his things and create a new studio," I say.

"Is this what he would want?" she asks, referencing my father.

I take a breath, ready to affirm her, but realize I'm not confident in my answer. So, I spend a while thinking before I truthfully say, "I don't know." I reach to rest my hand along the curve of her belly and stroke her skin with my thumb. "But it's what I want. And before you came along, he was my biggest supporter. I'm ready to follow through with things that _I_ want - not what others want for me."

"I can't believe we're talking about this," she admits. "It doesn't seem possible."

"Is it something you want?" I ask. "To leave?"

She turns her head to look at the ceiling instead of me, then surveys the room with her eyes. "I think so," she says. "I… I think so."

"Our home is gorgeous," I say. "I've loved being married to you here. But everyone - and I mean that quite literally - knows where we are. At all times. The media will only worsen once the baby arrives."

Fear flits across her eyes. "I don't want that," she says. "I won't be able to take it."

"Me, neither," I say. "But my mother does want it. She will make sure that every outlet has an insider's scoop so people stay interested in our family." I know this without asking; it's simply the type of thing my mother would do. I could see it in her eyes at dinner; she's excited for the baby because of all the attention it will garner. Attention means money and money means notoriety - it's a never-ending cycle.

April's chin quivers and in order to calm her, I cup her jaw and caress her cheekbone softly. She sniffles, closes her eyes for a long moment, then says, "I don't have the first clue how to take care of a baby," she says. "I don't want to figure it out with the world watching."

"I know," I whisper, kissing her ear. She relaxes a bit once I do, looping one arm over my shoulder to drag her fingertips along my skin. "Just tell me where you want to go."

She buries her face in my neck and pulls me in closer, just breathing for a while. I allow her time as I rub her side and drop kisses to where I can reach. "I've always wanted to see Paris," she says after a long pause, quiet as a mouse.

I smile to myself and press a deft kiss to her shoulder, saying, "Then Paris is where we'll go."

…

As April and I are sitting on the couch in the Kepner house, I can feel her nerves as Karen brings us each a drink. She makes peppermint tea for her daughter and hands me a cup of coffee - just the way I like it. I've been around this woman for less than a year and she seems to know me better than my own mother does. "Good for the baby," Karen says, smiling at April as she takes the mug.

"Thanks, mom," April says quietly, holding it with both hands as she breathes in the steam.

"Sissy, come upstairs with us," Alice says, bouncing on the cushion next to where Karen sits. "Why do I have to stay and listen? I'm bored, mama."

"April and Jackson have something important to tell us," Karen says.

"Is it that Jackson put a baby in Sissy's belly? 'Cause I already know that," Kimmie pipes up.

"No," April says, voice wavering a bit. "It's something else."

"What _is_ it?" Alice presses, throwing her head back.

"You're making me nervous," Libby says, showcasing a worried expression that I've seen April wear on more than one occasion.

"No… don't be nervous," April says, looking to me for support. Her eyes are pleading for help, so I assist her the best I can.

I cap a hand over her knee and rub my thumb in circles over the material of her tights. "We have news we'd like to share," I say. "It's big, so we wanted to tell you all in person. It also might not be the easiest for you to hear."

Karen's facial expression changes to that of realization, like she knows what I'm about to say before I can form the words. Then, she takes them right out of my mouth. "You're moving away," she states, simple as that.

April balks, lips parting so she can gape at her mother. "Mom… I…"

"Right?" Karen says, sounding open and receptive - which isn't what April was expecting. We talked this over for days - it's been almost a week since we made the decision. She was dreading telling her family because she was sure they'd feel abandoned and betrayed, left behind by their sun. But judging by the look in Karen's eyes, that's not correct.

"You're going away?" Alice asks, blue eyes watering already. "Sissy, you're going away?"

"Where?" Kimmie adds. "To where?"

"You can't go!"

"Girls," Libby says, quieting them. "Let her talk."

April looks to me, faltering a bit, but I nod to encourage her. Her words shouldn't be filtered through my mouth. These women are her family and they should be told by her. "We… are," she says, confirming Karen's suspicions. Her mother nods as if to punctuate the thought.

Kimmie and Alice start bawling, shoulders deflating as they cover their faces with their hands. "No!" Alice shouts, voice breaking. "No, no!"

"It's not fair," Kimmie says.

I look to my wife and see that she's begun to cry, too. She wipes beneath her eyes with her fingers, erasing the tears that fell even though she tried to blink them away. "Girls," she says, attempting to console them. "Don't cry. Please, don't cry."

"We're never, ever gonna see you again!" Alice wails.

April makes eye contact with her mother and Karen sees her crying. She extends an arm for her daughter and April falls into her side, sniffling and rubbing her nose. "I don't know what to say to them," April hiccups.

"You don't need to say anything," Karen says. "We understand. Libby and I, we've been talking for a while. The tabloids are obsessed with you now that you're pregnant. It's a toxic environment for a newborn, and it'll only get worse as they get older. They won't have any room to grow, and I know that's not something you want for your child. We knew you'd make the decision to leave eventually."

"I didn't even know, though," April says.

"Mothers know," Karen says, kissing April's temple. "Tell me where you're going."

April tells her everything and Karen listens, enraptured. Libby takes Kimmie on her lap and April cradles Alice as she cries. She doesn't try to stop the tears, she just lets the little girl sob and sniffle with her head on her chest, thumb in her mouth. April wraps her arms tight around her sister and kisses her hair, and I know, watching her in that moment, that she will be an amazing mother to our baby.

"You're gonna go away and never come back and never see us again," Alice whimpers after April is done relaying the details. She told them about our apartment in The 1st Arrondissement and how close it is to the Louvre and the Seine river. She told them that even though we'll be far away, it doesn't mean we're any less of a family and that they can fly out to see us on our dollar. Once the baby is old enough, we'll be happy to fly home and potentially consider a place in the United States again, but Europe is where we need to be while raising an infant. April doesn't feel like she can do it here, and I want to do everything on her terms. I'm more than happy to relocate to Paris. I've visited there a number of times and though she's never been, I have no doubt my wife will love it.

"That's not true," April says. "Remember what I said? You can fly on an airplane to come see us whenever you want. You can come to a brand new country, a brand new continent that you've never seen before."

Alice sniffles. "I won't get to play with my nephew niece," she says, and I smile at the fact that she doesn't know which to call our little one.

"You will," April assures her, stroking her sister's soft cheek. "I promise, you'll see us plenty. We just need to go away for a little while. We get too much attention here, and I need to go somewhere where that doesn't happen. I need to go somewhere where people don't care, where they don't know me."

"You'll get lonely," Alice says. "Why don't you want people to care about you?"

"So they stop taking pictures," April says. "Privacy is important to me and Jackson. And your nephew niece, they need privacy too."

"But…" Kimmie says, swiveling to look at her older sister. "We'll miss you so much."

"We'll miss you so much it already hurts," Alice echoes.

"Oh," April says, pulling them both close. She squeezes her eyes shut tight and holds onto them tighter - she doesn't move to let them free and they don't try to escape. They just stay there in an embrace while the rest of us look on, watching their bond grow stronger. "I miss you already, too," she says, cheeks squished by both of their heads. "But it won't be forever. I promise."

"Yeah, don't stay gone forever," Kimmie says. "Come back someday, Sissy, okay?"

"Okay," April promises, eyes still closed. "I will."

…

"We have to tell her."

"I do," I correct April as we stand next to each other in the wide bathroom mirror. A few days have passed, and she's already begun to box things up. I told her she shouldn't bother, but I frequently get brushed off. She says she's pregnant, not in a full body cast, and that I should let her do what needs to be done. By the time we get to the point of her saying that, her voice usually holds enough ferocity for me to back down. " _I_ have to tell her."

"You don't have to do it alone," she says, glancing over as she dabs powder on her face. We're getting ready for tea with my mother, who will be over shortly. April's dress is hanging by the closet, blush pink and gone unworn until today. As of right now, she's wearing a bra and underwear, adorable belly on full display. If we weren't already behind schedule, I would eat her up.

"It isn't your responsibility," I say, making miniscule trims on my beard so everything is even. "You don't have to shoulder the weight of her wrath. That's my job."

"You didn't make this decision alone," April says sternly, eyebrows low. She puts her powder brush down and looks at me head-on. "Let me support you, Jackson."

I give her a once-over and feel my chest swell with adoration for everything she is. She's everything to me and so much more. The strongest person I've ever met. The kindest and most level-headed, the most down-to-earth. She's logical when the situation calls for it and silly when it doesn't. She's brilliant beyond what most people expect and nurturing beyond all means. I'm lucky to be married to her, even luckier that she loves me. She snuck up on me, that much is certain, and thoughts like this frequently do the same. "You know how she can be," I say. "I don't want you caught up in it."

"I won't be caught up in anything," she says, looking back into the mirror to apply mascara. "I can hold my own. And even so, you'll be there. Let me help you. This is our baby. Our choice. Our life."

"Okay," I concede. "But if things get out of hand, I won't let her bully you. I just won't allow it."

"How bad can it be?" she says, leaning in towards her reflection.

"You underestimate her," I say lowly. "The loss of control will send her reeling."

I know my mother better than anyone else does and I'm more than convinced this interaction will be anything but pleasant. There's a pit in my stomach that won't go away, but this has to be done. I try to tell myself that I'm not afraid of her, she doesn't frighten me, but that voice inside my head is quiet. She's had pull over me since my father died, and I'm about to take that pull away. The only plausible reaction to come from her is negative. "It's two against one," April says, screwing the cap back onto the mascara tube.

I zip up her dress after she puts it on, slowly dragging the zipper up until it reaches the nape of her neck. With her hair moved to one shoulder, her skin is exposed - so, I take advantage and press a slow kiss to the side of her neck. She relaxes a bit and uses one hand to hold the side of my head, stroking my hair as I let my forehead fall to rest on her shoulder.

"We'll be fine," she assures me.

"Okay," I say, though I'm not convinced in the slightest.

"We will be," she urges.

When my mother walks through the main door, my palms still sweat though I've tried to make them stop. I'm not afraid of anything or anyone; I refuse to let another person manipulate or take advantage of myself or my wife. Just because she's my mother and she's bent me to her will for my entire life doesn't mean that trend will continue. It stops now.

"Son," she says coolly, giving me a nod. Then, she looks to April and says, "April."

"Hi, Catherine," she says, hands folded at her waist. "Come in."

I watch as my wife takes the lead and shows my mother into the house, solidifying her grip on the reins before anyone can say otherwise. I appreciate it and it knocks my mother off her foundation, that much is obvious. April sits at the kitchen table and we follow suit - I sit next to my wife with an arm across the back of her chair and my mother sits a certain distance away from us. "I have to know what was so important that you called me here to talk in person," she says, accepting a cup of tea without looking at the person serving it. April thanks the staff effusively, making eye contact as she does. "I don't have all day. So, let's get to it. You wanted to sit me in the kitchen rather than the conference room for some godforsaken reason."

"I'm comfortable here," April says, setting her teacup down and looking my mother in the eye.

"So, you chose the meeting space," my mother says, then places her eyes on me with an eyebrow quirked. "Is there a new head of the Avery household, Jackson? Your wife seems to have stolen the pants from you to wear them."

I narrow my eyes. "We don't believe in those constructs," I say.

"What a changed man you are," she says, rolling her eyes while puffing out her cheeks.

I don't honor that comment with a response. Instead, I turn to April and she looks at me in the same moment, both of us gauging how we want to begin. Though I know she wants to shoulder some of the weight, it should be me who breaks the news. I stand by what I said when I told April she doesn't deserve my mother's wrath. "We have news we'd like to share," I say. "And before I tell you anything, I'd like you to know that you have no say over the decision we've made. It's already done." I take a deep breath and April grips my hand atop the table, stroking my knuckles with her thumb. "We're relocating," I say.

My mother doesn't flinch. "Tell me which house you chose so I can tell the staff to spruce it up," she says, already pulling out her phone to make such arrangements. "I assume you're thinking California. It'll be difficult with the recent fires, but-"

"Catherine, no," April says, and although she speaks softly, it's with confidence. "We're not moving to an Avery home."

My mother looks at her with scrutiny, like she couldn't have said anything less intelligent. "Where do you think you'll be going, then?" she spits. "There's no better place in the nation than a mansion that we already own."

April winds an arm around her belly and keeps her eyes centered on the woman next to her. "We're not staying here," she says. "The three of us are moving to Paris."

My mother looks to me, eyes on fire. "You're allowing her to make these types of decisions for you?" she says. "You're weak, Jackson. Just like your father."

"Don't talk to him like that," April says, speaking before I can. "He's not weak, and his father was lovely. We're moving because it's what we both want, and he's prioritizing our family over anything else. I don't want to raise my child in the life that you've chosen for us. I don't want to raise my child around _you_ , Catherine."

I look to my wife with shock written all over my face. I'm beyond impressed; I knew she had that type of vim and vigor in her, but I didn't think she'd ever have the gall to stand up to my mother. "Are you going to let her talk to me like that?" she says to me.

I shift my eyes to hers. "I won't have you raising our child the same way you 'raised' me," I say. "We won't have nannies. We won't have butlers. We won't have a staff."

"You don't know the first thing about taking care of yourself," she hisses.

"I'll help him," April says, cutting in. "We'll to figure it out together."

My mother continues to look at me with pure fury. "I always knew you were too insecure to take on this last name," she says. "It's a good thing you idolize your father so much. He couldn't take it, either. Now, you can fulfill your dream of stepping into his shoes."

"Good," I say. "I think he'd be proud of me."

"For shirking your duties and abandoning your place? Oh, surely," she says, scoffing. "I'm sure you didn't think of this since you haven't thought anything through, but I want you to be made aware that you will not see a single cent of the inheritance if this child doesn't grow up on Avery property, as a proper Avery legacy. It was stated clearly in Harper's will - the child is to live an Avery life, which you are incapable of supplying without me."

"That's fine," April says, though she looks to me for affirmation after. I give it to her with a curt nod of the head. "That's fine," she repeats.

"So, no silly little foundations for either of you," she says. "What you had your sights set on for so long."

"We'll figure out another way," I say.

She stands up hastily, forcing the chair to make an abrasive sound on the tile below. "When you realize that you can't live with anything less than the plush life I've given you, there will be no home for you to come back to," she says.

"We'll have our own home," I say, and I know it's true. She can't take away everything I have - I still have savings and plenty of monetary provisions. April and I will be just fine without the exorbitant amount we're leaving behind.

"You won't make it on your own," she says, turning her back as she heads towards the door.

In that moment, I realize that this view is what I've seen most frequently. Her back as she walks away, whether it was to leave me with a nanny as a child or to leave me on my own as I grew older. She never stood by my side and helped me, never encouraged me, never nurtured me in the way I so badly needed. She loved the idea of a legacy but not the hard work of parenting, so she simply decided to give that work to someone else. I'll no longer be her trophy son and she'll be alone. She'll be alone while I start a family with the woman I love, the one sitting up straight beside me harboring a taut, pinched expression.

When my mother leaves through the front door, April looks at me and squeezes my hand. "She's wrong," she says.

"Well, not totally," I tell her, then amend my statement before she can negate it. "I wouldn't make it on my own. I probably wouldn't last a day." I bring her hand to my face and kiss it, lingering for a long moment as I look into her eyes. "But I won't be alone. I have you."

Her face softens and a warm smile spreads from her mouth to her eyes. She holds both sides of my head and pulls me closer, pressing her lips to my forehead deliberately. They're still there when she says, "And I have you."

…

"Ma chérie, tu es lá?"

I smile to myself from where I sit at the wooden dining room table, going through a recipe book as April walks in the front door of our apartment. "In here, mon coeur," I call back.

She appears in the doorway with a breathless smile moments later, hair askew and coming out of its ponytail. "There you are," she says, setting down her brown bag of fresh groceries.

"I love when you speak French," I say, watching her as she unloads what she bought.

"I know you do," she says. "My accent is horrible, though."

"Your accent is cute," I say.

"Says you," she says. "Okay. I got a bunch of fresh spices for dinner tonight, if you still feel like cooking."

"I was just looking up the recipe," I say. We planned on eating cassoulet tonight, which is a classic French dish. April has tried her hand at a few other things, most of which have gone over well. Now, it's my turn and I definitely don't expect as impressive of a result.

"Okay," she says. "And I got these." She pulls out a bouquet of beautiful, multicolored flowers that she holds in front of my face to smell. "I couldn't resist. And these, for my sisters when they come." She pulls out one long purple ribbon and one of the same size that's periwinkle blue.

"They'll love them," I say.

"I thought so, too," she says. "And then… I heard from Dr. Auguste that berries are great for the baby. And since I'm so far along, I really need the extra calories. So, I can eat as many as I want."

I survey at the assortment of berries in cartons that she's taken out of the bag, then look up to her proud smile - one hand resting on her very round belly. She's 7 months along now, and we've been living in our Paris apartment for almost 3 of those. Every day, things get a little homier and a little more comfortable, but time is still moving much too quickly. "I'm sure you'll share," I say teasingly.

"I'm sure I won't," she says, snatching them up. She walks towards the kitchen, then calls over her shoulder, "You better get started if you want to be finished by dinnertime."

"I will," I say, watching her when she comes back after putting the food away.

"I'm going to take a nap," she says. "My feet are so swollen, I'm not sure how I plan on getting my shoes off. But will you come get me when you're finished?"

"Of course," I say, then stand. I place my hands on either side of her belly and give her a chaste kiss on the lips, one she smiles into. "Have a nice rest."

"Don't burn the place down," she says, rapping her knuckles against my chest. "I can't move very fast these days."

I peck her on the cheek then tap her ass as she turns around. "Hold the jokes," I say, and she snickers.

I work for a while in the kitchen, playing the radio softly as I try to adhere to the recipe as strictly as possible. April has been so hungry lately, so anything less than a magnificent dinner will be a disappointment, and that's the last thing I want. It takes a good amount of time for me to perfect it, but by the time the cassoulet is finished, it looks decently similar to the one in the photo.

I set the table then find my way to our room, pushing open the door once I arrive. She has the window open, which is no surprise since she overheats easily these days. She's wearing loose shorts and a long-sleeved, airy shirt, hair taken from its ponytail to flow over the pillow. Her arms are strewn above her head and her shirt has ridden up just a bit, exposing a strip of skin on her stomach. Unable to resist, I smile to myself as I walk to the bed, then push her shirt up even further. I kiss the round of her belly and feel movement underneath as our daughter kicks - the daughter that neither April nor my mother expected. My mother doesn't know we're having a girl nor will she ever, and if she did she would probably only have negative things to say. April, on the other hand, is overjoyed. Though we haven't yet been able to come up with a name, both of us are already obsessed with our little angel. I've already painted the nursery - handcrafting the trim myself with contrasting designs that will surely catch her eye. There's a mural of the sky on the ceiling with lifelike landscapes along the walls and a bright, yellow sun in the corner. All the furniture is prepared and ready for her - a cherry wood crib, changing table, rocking chair, and bookshelf, with a plush, white armchair for nursing. Inside the crib, along with stuffed animals gifted by Kimmie and Alice, is the blue blanket that April had held onto so dearly - repaired and refurbished. Now, it will belong to a baby once again.

"Sweetest," I say, massaging her stomach. "Dinner's ready. It's time to wake up."

Her eyes come open slowly, lashes fluttering as she widens them to look at me. "Hmmm, hi baby," she says, stretching. "It's ready?"

"It is," I say. "And it looks wonderful. I hope you're hungry."

"We are," she says, overlapping my hand on her belly. "Let's eat."

We have a nice dinner together, just like every other night. We don't go out much here because we're not quite used to the life we lead, and both of us have an unspoken fear of being recognized. So far, it hasn't happened - but I'm dreading the moment it inevitably does. Our bubble will burst and the quiet existence we've created might come toppling down. Of course, Europe is different than America being that the people are less intrusive, but the idea is still a harrowing one. We're not there yet. I'm not sure when we will be.

After dinner, though, we make a special trip to see the Eiffel Tower after dark. It's lit up with beautiful, yellow lights, and April's face shines underneath it as we stand with tourists and locals alike, admiring the gigantic structure. We find a bench and she takes my hand, clasping my fingers tight as she stares at the sight. Without hearing her say it, I know she's happy. She's calm and content whereas she wasn't before, and here she feels safe. She can let her guard down and live the way she wants, rather than how she thinks others want her to live. I've gotten to know April better in the last 3 months than I did during the entirety of our time in Chicago, and it's been a breath of fresh air. As each day passes, I fall more in love with who she is.

"I feel your eyes," she says after a while, though she doesn't look over. She continues to study the tower, eyes shining with the reflection.

"Because I'm looking at you," I say.

She turns to ask, "Why?"

"Because I love you."

She screws up her lips in a smile and shakes her head, rolling her eyes a bit. "You're funny," she says, then holds my jaw to kiss me. "I love you, too."

We spend a moment with our foreheads pressed together and I know, in that breath, that everything is where it's supposed to be. We're in a beautiful city, we live in a beautiful apartment that we've made our own, my wife loves me, and we have a daughter on the way. I've never felt more locked into place than I do right now. "Do you think we're ready?" I ask, one hand moving to rest on her stomach between us.

"Yes," she says, nodding. "I once heard this saying that says 'you won't know until you get there that you're okay.' And…" She shrugs. "I think I'm okay."

I smile and kiss her once, twice, three times. "I am, too," I say.

She takes my hand and turns to look at the tower again, this time leaning her head on my shoulder. "Our little girl needs a name," she says, tracing my knuckles.

"She does," I agree.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," she says. "And I feel like this is where we're supposed to be. Here, in France. I've never been as happy as I am here with you. And… I want her name to mirror that, you know? So, I've been trying to figure out a way to make that happen."

"Did you come up with something?" I ask.

"I did," she says, smiling. "I'm just not sure how you'll feel about it."

"Anything you like, I like," I say.

"Except for bananas," she points out, tapping my knee. "Which you're still wrong about, by the way." I chuckle softly and kiss her temple, encouraging her along. "It means 'happiness' in Old French," she says. "Joya." She smiles hesitantly then continues. "Not with a hard J. A soft one, like...almost like the word 'genre'? Joya." She tests it out again and looks to me for a response. "Do you hate it?"

"No," I answer, wrapping one arm around her to hold her close. "It's perfect."

"You think?"

I nod. "For our Paris girl, yes," I say. "I love it. Joya."

April smiles softly, looking to the bump where newly-named Joya still resides. "She has a name," she says, tracing the roundness of it. "You have a name now, little one."

I double over and press a kiss right next to her hand, and feel a kick from the inside. I laugh to myself and rub her skin over her shirt, saying the name one more time for effect. "Joya," I say, then close my eyes and kiss her belly again. "Joya."


	17. Epilogue

DANG! So, this story is finally over. It's probably been my longest-running fic to date. Thanks everyone for sticking around! As usual, don't forget to review!

…

 **APRIL**

I wake up with Jackson's face tucked into my neck, his skin smooth and cheeks freshly shaved. The absence of a beard has been somewhat of a trend for him during our 3-year stint in Paris, and I've grown used to the feeling. Sometimes, when the five o'clock shadow sneaks in, though, I find myself missing his facial hair. I know he'd grow it back if I asked. "Good morning, mon chéri," he says, his voice gravelly with sleep. "Today's the big day."

I take a deep, cleansing inhale with my eyes still closed, arms wound around the broad expanse of his shoulders. Warmth exudes from his body and the weight of it is pleasant, a way to call me to myself upon first waking up. "Morning," I say, tipping my head to the side as he continues to kiss me.

"How're you feeling?" he asks, moving to look into my eyes. His are bright and sparkling, as they've grown to be in the mornings. This is when he's at his best.

"Excited," I say, though even I can hear how the feeling isn't there.

"Hmm," he says, lowering to kiss me full on the mouth. I love it when he wakes me up with sweet affection; it's so nice when we have the time. And we'd keep going all morning if we could, but there's usually an interruption that occurs somewhere. "Nervous, too."

"What?" I say. "How do you know?"

"I can taste it," he says, pressing his lips to mine again for effect. "Mixed with your morning breath. It's nice."

"Stop it, you," I say, lightly smacking his bare chest.

He chuckles a little, low in his throat. "Really," he says. "I know because I know you. It's a big deal, today is. You've got every right to be nervous. I am, too."

"You are?" I say incredulously. "What for?"

"It's been a long time since we've been home," he says, eyes never leaving mine. "I'm worried about… well, maybe 'worried' isn't the word. I'm curious about what will be different. Concerned about what will be the same."

"Yeah," I say, letting my arms rest above my head. He uses this position to rest on the open plane of my chest, the heaviness of his skull solid between my breasts as he relaxes on top of me. I don't mind. It's a position we commonly find ourselves in, and one where I can hold him. As we lie here, I card my fingers through his springy curls and watch them bounce back into place. "I'm afraid things between my mother and sisters and me won't be the same as they were."

"Hmm."

"I promised we'd come back," I say, watching him rise and fall subtly as I breathe. "Before we left, I promised them."

"We are going back," he says.

"I meant sooner," I say. "And they meant sooner, too. It's been three-and-a-half years, minou." I shake my head and stroke the shell of his ear that's facing up. "They'll be upset with me, I know it."

"We did what we had to do," he says, taking my hand to link our fingers together. "We don't have to apologize for it. Our daughter is happy. We're happy and we have been for years. Being away allowed us to find a place we want to return to. They have to understand." He kisses the top of my hand and punctuates the thought with, "Ma souris."

I laugh a little, not loud enough to be heard but enough to jostle him. "Are we ready, though?" I ask, switching gears. "Are we ready to leave this?"

"We don't have to," he assures me, repeating the sentiment he's been saying over the past handful of months. "If you'd rather stay and work remotely, it can be done."

"I don't," I say solidly. "I want to be there. I want to go."

"JoJo won't know what think about the huge cars," he says, and I can't help my smile.

"She won't know what to think about a lot of things," I murmur. "It'll be a whole new world for her."

Joya is excited to go to 'America, America!' and has been talking about it nonstop since we broke the news a few weeks ago. She's FaceTimed with her aunts and grandma for her whole life, but has never met them in person. She's excited for all the different things the United States will offer, so much so that she's not too upset to leave her preschool or her friends. She's only three years old, so too much of a reaction can't be expected, but I almost wish she would've put up more of a fight.

I've gotten used to life here in Paris. It's comfortable and quiet, routinized and friendly. We've made a sanctuary that was never possible in the Avery mansion. This is a space that has grown to be ours, just ours, no pretense and no shoes to fill. Jackson has been selling his paintings and I've read more books over the course of these years than I was ever given the privilege to do in my old life. I like the person I've grown to become, and I have to remind myself that just because our location is changing doesn't mean that I have to change. I won't revert to who I was before, I'm not her any longer. I'm confident with my place and what I've created. It's time to head back to the States to let that persona give way to the world, to share that sureness with girls who need it as much as I did just years ago.

"I'm surprised she's not awake yet," he says.

"Don't jinx it," I reply. "She needs to rest."

"During the plane ride, she's your daughter."

I roll my eyes and hold his head to lift it, looking into his eyes once again. "You'd better hope she sleeps through it," I say.

"If she's anything like you - and we already know the answer to that -" he says, "she will."

He kisses me slow and we both inhale through our noses as he turns to press the front of his body against mine. "She never sleeps in," I say against his lips.

"Which is why I'm using it to our advantage," he says, palming my breast through my thin pajama top.

"What if she walks in?" I ask.

"Then she'll see you're no good at wrestling," he chuckles, lightly pinning both of my hands with our fingers intertwined.

"Mmm, okay," I say, keening as he kisses my neck - slow and with tongue.

When he pushes inside me, a melancholy feeling washes through my body paired with the euphoria I always feel when we're intimate. Through the open window on my side of the bed, four stories up, I can see the shops a few blocks away. I can hear people on the sidewalk below, running early-morning errands. I can hear the neighbor's baby, Celeste, crying as she usually does in the mornings. Even the breeze is familiar as it flows in and winds around us, encouraging the thought that this is the last time we'll have sex where it feels exactly how it does right now.

I don't let the thought stay but I don't let it go, either. I capture the way everything feels - from how Jackson fills me to the Parisian sun on my skin - and lock it inside my chest. I don't know if I'll ever need to unearth it, but it's there if the day ever comes when I do.

…

The weight of our daughter is pleasantly substantial as we ride in the private plane. Jackson is in the seat next to us, going over documents, and I'm watching him with my cheek resting atop her head. "You should try and sleep, ma souris," he says without looking up from the laptop.

"It's no use," I say, stroking Joya's perfectly plaited hair, tied with a pink silk ribbon at the end. Pink is her favorite color.

He lifts his eyes then and overlaps my hand on her outer hip, stroking my knuckles to ground me. "Anxious?" he asks. I nod. "For which portion?"

"Both," I say.

"You've practiced the speech for months," he says. "If there's anything you should rest easy about, it's that. You could say it in your sleep. Actually, I'm fairly certain that you have at one point."

I giggle softly and Joya's body moves in tandem. "I just want everyone to know how much this means to me," I say.

"They will," he promises. "There's no way they can't."

"I'm worried they'll judge me." He doesn't respond; instead, gives me the floor to continue. "The background of where you chose to put your money is sentimental," I say. "Your father. He was an artist and that's what he wanted for you, too. So, you're giving that chance to children who might not have had it before. That's wonderful. That's noble. But mine…"

"You're giving a chance to underprivileged girls with nowhere to go," he says. "If you can't see nobility in that, I'm not sure what to tell you."

"I'm so proud to give them a chance," I say. "A shelter. A home. A safe place, at the very least, with resources. But telling my story to so many people who view me a certain way…" I shake my head. "It's daunting. The board knows why I chose to create the foundation, but most of them at the event won't. What are they supposed to say when my speech is over?"

"That's for them to figure out," he says. "No one but you will say the right thing, that's guaranteed." He kisses my cheek. "You always do."

As the plane begins its descent, I haven't slept a wink and Joya is still unconscious. I kiss the top of her single braid and hug her tight, saying, "Wake up, ma petite." She stirs and makes a soft sound of wakefulness, then turns closer to my chest to pop her thumb in her mouth. "Sommes-nous en Amérique?" she asks in sleepy French.

Joya is fluent, and being so young, doesn't always realize which of the two languages she's speaking. When she was an infant and toddler, Jackson would speak French at home and teach both of us. She caught on much quicker than I did and given that her preschool only teaches in French, she's entirely bilingual. My accent is still bad and I'm not the greatest at speaking - writing is better - but understanding my daughter has always come naturally. "We are," I say. "We're about to land."

"Mes tantes? Ma grand-mère?" she questions, eyes bright now. She turns towards the window and sees Jackson, which makes her face erupt in a lovely smile. "Papa," she says, and crawls to him.

He kisses her hairline over and over until she's giggling, nestled against his neck like a little bird. "Bonjour, ma fifille," he says, swaying as he wraps his arms around her. "You slept for a long time."

"I sleep to America!" she says, thumb in her mouth again. With her head resting on Jackson's chest, she blinks those big, sapphire eyes at me. "Mama," she says. "Quand on verra tantes et grand-mère?"

"In English, JoJo," I say, pulling her hand away from her mouth so her thumb will come out.

Jackson gives me a look. He hates it when I take her thumb out, claiming it's cute and that it's a security blanket for her. When I tell him she's getting too old, he tells me that she's three. I come back with the argument - will it be cute when she's 12? And he says that yes, it probably will be, because she's our daughter and no one has ever created a cuter child than we did.

Almost as if on cue, she put it back in her mouth and looks up at Jackson, the one who always gives in. "En anglais, papa?" she asks in her sweetest voice. She likes speaking French. It comes naturally, being that she does all day at school. She usually switches gears when she comes home because that's what's easier for her parents - and English is just as easy for her. French has become comfortable, though. That's what she hears all around her; at school, the market, in the street where she lives - where she used to live. I can't help but wonder - now that we're moving back to the United States, will her accent go away? A pit grows in my stomach at the thought. I hope it doesn't.

"In English, ma mie," he says. "Your aunties and grandma don't know French. They'll want to to understand you."

"They can learn," she says excitedly. "I can teach them!"

"Maybe," I say. "But they'll want to talk to you in English first. They won't know what you're saying if you only speak French with them."

"Oh," she says. "Then I speak English to them."

"Yes," I say, touching her chin.

"Right when we get to America?" she asks.

"Not quite," I answer.

"Why?"

"We have somewhere else to go first," I say.

"J'ai sommeil," she says, yawning and resting against Jackson's chest, curling her body into a tiny ball. She's little, like me.

"I know," I say. "But you and Papa will sit in the audience. You can fall asleep if you want. Remember, Maman is going to deliver a speech to the organization I was telling you about."

"Oh, yeah," she says, blinking slow. "We get to listen, too?"

"Mm-hmm," I say.

"Are we gonna be good listeners for Maman?" Jackson asks, peering into Joya's face.

She smiles at him, eyes crinkling at the corners like his do. "Yes," she says happily. "And we'll clap and cheer and say 'yay!' Right?"

"Of course," he says. "That's what we're there for."

…

I've never seen the Blue Blanket building in person. I spent months discussing its architecture, months on the interior design, and months helping to hire needed staff, but being here in person is much different. With the money that Joya's presence gave us, that Catherine couldn't control, I created this. With the help of so many, the fruit of my hardship blossomed into something I can touch. "Wow," I say, pausing in front of the doors with Joya on my hip and Jackson at my side. "Here it is."

The sign tells us as much. Blue Blanket, with the inscription underneath: Your security. Your safety. Your home. "Let's go in," Jackson says, placing a hand on the small of my back to urge me forward.

I separate from them eventually, parting ways with a kiss for them both. Joya puckers her lips and I smooch her, then do as much of the same for my husband - a quick peck. "I should go," I say, still lingering.

"Don't worry," Jackson says. "Just speak from your heart like you always do."

I nod with a small smile, then head in the other direction. I get about halfway down the hall before I hear, "Maman! Maman!" and turn back to see Joya waving her arms while perched on Jackson's side. "Wait!" She quickly turns to her father and asks him something in a whisper, and he responds with a hand cupped around her ear. "Good luck, Maman!" she shouts eventually, having gotten a translation.

My face breaks into a huge grin. "Merci, ma mie," I call back, blowing her a kiss.

Plenty of people talk to me backstage, and plenty stay quiet with only their eyes on me. I know my presence has grown since I first became an Avery - I'm sure of myself now, confident anywhere. I assert myself and the aura I give off says as much, of that I'm certain. I'm no longer wary of my position in this world and I know who I am. My solemn attitude is surely intimidating for some, but it's what I need at the moment to keep me grounded. The socializing comes after, when the weight of a perfect speech is off my shoulders. Now, though, I need to prepare.

Though I spend a long time behind the curtain going over points I want to make, my stomach still flips inside out when I hear my name. "Now, for the woman of the hour. The face behind the name, the one who made all of this possible. Please welcome our founder, Mrs. April Avery."

I straighten up and smooth the nonexistent creases in my pantsuit, shaking my hair away from my shoulders as I smile demurely and step onto the stage in my black pumps. I take a deep breath and stand at the podium, scanning the sizable crowd laid before me. I spend a moment soaking this in, reveling in the fact that in reality, this should have never happened for me. But here I am, sharing my voice with the world, ready to make it happen for girls wearing the same shoes I once did.

"I'm not supposed to be standing here right now," I say, immediately breaking into the speech. I'm more comfortable up here than I anticipated. I'm not quite relaxed, but I'm not wired either. "Statistically, I shouldn't be," I continue. "I was born in the projects. I grew up there. My father died when I was young and I took care of my sisters while my mother and older sister worked to put food on the table. I didn't finish high school, and after I dropped out, I worked as a housekeeper alongside my mother. I didn't have any other opportunities because the lack of money and resources made sure of that. College wasn't an option. Scholarships would have been possible had I kept my grades up, but I didn't. My entire life changed on the night I delivered my stillborn son on the bathroom floor of that house in the projects and laid him to rest in a place he should never have gone. I was sixteen years old."

I let the words resonate not only with the audience but with myself, too. Though I've been to therapy, on some days, acceptance still feels worlds away. But on others, I hold my son's memory close and forgive myself for what I did. I had Jackson draw him and I now keep his image in a diary next to my bed. Joya carries his blanket as if she's holding his hand. I named him Simon.

"Although my experience was terrifying and isolating, as I grew older I knew I couldn't have been the only young girl to go through something like it," I say. "3 in 10 American teens will get pregnant each year. That's 750,000 pregnancies, and the leading reason as to why these young girls drop out of school. 50% of teen mothers don't graduate from high school, just like I didn't." I place my hands flat in front of me. "Every 98 seconds, someone in America is sexually assaulted. The hard truth is this: out there in the great big world, it isn't always safe. Home isn't always safe. Family isn't always safe. But here at Blue Blanket, we're determined to create a sanctuary for those who need it. We provide schooling that works around a teen mother's schedule, with free in-facility daycare. We provide counseling for victims of assault, and a safe place to stay if home is no longer an option. We provide step-by-step pregnancy education along with abortion and adoption support. We are your biggest advocates. We are everything teen girls feel they don't have. With a big-brother-big-sister ideology in place, we provide mentors for any young boy or girl involved in our program. At Blue Blanket, you will never be alone. There will always be a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear, and a hand to pull you up. We are your safety and security. We would love to be your home."

…

On the way to Lincoln Park and the house where my mother, Alice and Kimmie still live, we stop at the Art Institute to see a special exhibit. Chicago Public Schools held a contest through their newly funded art program and the winners are on display in the museum. Jackson beamed the whole way through, holding his prodigee on his shoulders as they picked their favorites. I stood back and watched them, marveling at the family I never could have imagined for myself.

It's dinnertime when we arrive in Lincoln Park, and my family is expecting us. My hands are clammy and my heart beats a thousand miles per hour, but Joya is riddled with excitement. "Almost there, almost there!" she sings, craning her neck to look out the window. "Right?'

"Right," I say quietly.

"Hey," Jackson says, reaching to take my hand. "Everything will be fine."

"Are you scared they won't know you anymore 'cause you been gone?" Joya asks, and although she means the question in a simpler manner than I take it, she hits it right on the head. The fact of the matter is that they don't know the woman I've turned into. They've seen brief snippets of her over FaceTime and through letters, but I've transformed into someone they might not recognize. I don't know what they'll think of the change; I'm a mother now. A wife. A founder and chair of the board. I've created something of the Avery name that was thrust upon me and spread around my privilege. Will they understand the life I lead?

"They'll know her," Jackson says. "You think just anybody has that crazy red hair?"

"Hey," I say, but inwardly I thank him for breaking the tension that I created.

When my mother answers the door, her face hasn't changed at all. I don't know why I expected that it might have; three years is the blink of an eye past a certain age. It was because my child has grown and changed so substantially that I expected everyone's lives to have altered drastically; when in reality, that is not the case. "Mom," I say, and the word itself is a sigh of relief.

"April," she says, and pulls me close in the same way she ever did. She holds the back of my head with one hand and I let all my tension go. She keeps me there for a long time. The minutes stop and everything else disappears - for a long moment, it's just me and my mother bursting with empathy and the thought that we no longer have to miss each other. When we finally part, she holds my face and thumbs away my tears. Her eyes are soft and her chin trembles, and I hiccup before attempting a smile. "Look at you," she says. "Just look at you. You're everything I knew you'd be." She beams, her face is shining when she says, "You are so beautiful."

"Mama," I say, my voice wet and clogged. "I'm sorry it's been so long. I'm so sorry."

"You're here now," she says, chin on my shoulder as she rubs my back. "That's what matters." Up until now, Joya has been standing with her arms around Jackson's legs, thumb in her mouth. When my mom releases me for a second time, she rests her eyes on my daughter. "Is that my little granddaughter?" she says.

Joya smiles around her thumb, eyes twinkling. "Grand-mère" she says.

Mom kneels and spreads her arms wide, and Joya runs into them at full speed, practically knocking her over in the process. After the commotion, I look up with a leftover smile on my face to find my two younger sisters standing there - Alice now 8, and Kimmie 11. They look worlds different in the way that I expected our mother to. Alice is no longer short and chubby-cheeked; instead, she's all angles and freckles. She wears glasses now with pink frames, and has adult teeth coming in. I've seen as much over FaceTime, but in person it's different. Kimmie cut her hair shoulder-length, and it makes her look so mature. Where are the little girls I left, the ones who would get splinters from the dining room table and snuggle next to me at night? It's clear those children have disappeared now. I left them in the past, along with the previous version of myself. I guess we all had to move on somehow, in our own ways.

"Hi," I say breathily, unsure of what to do with my hands. My sisters look at me as a united front, unsmiling with wariness laden in their eyes. Kimmie's focus darts to Joya, who's still caught up in Mom, then around to Jackson. Finally, she centers back on me, where Alice has stayed unwavering. "You two are so grown up," I say.

"You said it wouldn't be forever, and it was," Alice says, and her tone wobbles. She's trying not to cry, but I don't call attention to it. "It was three whole years. And eight months."

"And six days," Kimmie adds.

Alice crosses her arms and lets her eyes dart away. They're glistening. "You said it wouldn't be forever," she whimpers.

It's clear how much I hurt them. I knew how much it stung, each day, week, month, year that I stayed gone. For their whole lives, they had depended on me for everything and I took that away. But I am not their mother, and Mom is perfectly capable. She always has been, and with the extra money they're thriving. I didn't leave them in squalor; I would have never done something like that. "I had to go," I say. "And we had to stay once we left."

"We never even got to see her when she was a baby," Kimmie says, referencing Joya.

"I'm sorry," I say genuinely. "We did what we had to do. I know it's hard for you to understand, but we needed to find a place that was just our own. We needed to find a special sort of happiness, Jackson and I, in being married."

"You were happy with us," Alice insists.

"Or weren't you ever?" Kimmie follows up.

"No," I say firmly. "I was. With you two, always. But everything gets complicated when you have a baby." I turn to Joya and swipe hair out of her face and she giggles silently, hands by her mouth. She's tickled by the presence of her aunts. She's been dying to meet them. "She'd love to play with you now," I tell them, hoping to warm them up to her. "She's been talking about you for weeks."

"She has?" Kimmie says.

"You have?" Alice says, addressing her niece specifically.

"Go ahead," I say. With a smile still on her face, though, she shakes her head. Her curls bounce from the action. "What?" I say, but all she does is shake her head again. In an instant, I realize that this moment of excitement has forced her to forget the English greeting, and she took what I said to heart - that they don't understand French. So, I lean in and say, "Say 'hi, aunties.'"

Joya's smile grows even bigger, cheeks bulging so much that her eyes nearly disappear. "Hi, aunties," she says, and looks to me for approval. Of course, I give it to her.

Alice and Kimmie smile too. First at her, then me. "She has our dimples," Kimmie says, amused.

"I know," I say. "Jackson was the one who noticed it first, actually."

"Those Kepner genes sure are strong," he says, piping up for the first time. "Can I get a 'hello' around here? You guys used to love playing with me. Am I old news now?" They pause for a moment, then silently and simultaneously come to a decision as they throw their arms around his neck. Easily, he lifts them into the air and swings them around, one arm around each of their backs. "I missed you guys!" he bellows.

When he sets them down, Alice gets close to me and frames my face with her hands. I overlap her fingers with mine and stare into her eyes - the eyes that have always matched mine - and watch her thoughts whir. "Are you gonna leave us again?" she asks. "After this, are you going back to Paris?"

One corner of my lips pulls up as I'm given the perfect platform to tell her, and the rest of them, the news. "No," I say. "We're coming home."

…

That night, Jackson and I take the guest room and Joya bunks with her aunts. She's determined to teach them French, though they're only interested in silly phrases that include things to do with the bathroom. We heard them giggling long past lights out, but now the house is finally quiet and my husband and I are alone.

"You did amazing today," he says, taking off his watch to set on the nightstand.

"Don't put that there," I say over my shoulder as I take my necklace off. "You'll forget it. Put it by my toothbrush."

He chuckles to himself and drops a casual kiss to my bare shoulder as he brushes by me. "Yes, wife," he mutters, then comes back into the bedroom. "Did you hear me? You were amazing."

"I did do pretty well in my speech," I say, smirking.

"Yes, you did," he says, lying down. I join him soon after. "I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you."

"For everything," he says.

"Everything?"

"Mm-hmm. Everything you could imagine, I'm proud of you for it."

"That's a lot to carry."

"Good thing your shoulders are so strong," he says, kissing my outer arm. His eyes are sparkling with happiness as he winds an arm around me and pulls me close to rest on his chest.

"It's weird, being back," I say.

"In a negative way?"

"No, not at all," I respond. "Just… strange how things could stay so much the same while we changed. I don't know why, but I expected to come back to a whole new world. But it's really not new at all."

"No," he says, speaking against my hairline. "A lot of it is the same."

"It's hard to believe we're the same people as the couple who came to this house for the first time together," I say, smiling as I recount the memory. "Remember?"

"Yes," he says. "I haven't forgotten a single thing about us."

"Not a thing?"

"No," he says. "I remember the night we first slept in the same bed. I remember when you defended me to the press when I didn't deserve it. I remember the Maldives. I remember when you stood up to my mother. I remember seeing you in the wedding dress I selected and wondering what the hell I got myself into, marrying a redhead."

I giggle softly. "I guarantee, it was scarier for me seeing you for the first time."

I hear him smile as his heart pumps steadily under my ear. "You were never scared of me, though," he says. "That's one of the many great things about you."

"No, I wasn't," I say. "Even though you wanted me to be."

"Oh, I didn't," he says, chuckling. "But I made you love me. Didn't I?"

I scoff playfully. "You couldn't make me do anything. You still can't." I poke his stomach and smile widely. "You're lucky I love you."

Then, he takes the light moment and turns it serious. He holds my chin between his thumb and first finger and tips my face up, then lets our eyes linger on each other for a long time. Before he kisses me, he says, "I am. I really am."


End file.
